


Long and Winding

by sospes



Series: The Path Not Taken [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bonding In Inappropriate Situations, Brief mention of rape/non-con, Canon-Typical Violence, Domesticity, Drama, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Magical Fuckery, Minor Character Deaths, Spells & Enchantments, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Whump, communication!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: On their way to meet Yennefer after wintering at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier gets separated from Geralt and Ciri. It all just sort of escalates from there.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Path Not Taken [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719325
Comments: 845
Kudos: 2137
Collections: Angsty Angst Times





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said at the end of _[The Path Not Taken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647384)_ that I was thinking of writing more, and here we are...! This is less of a weird witcher romcom and more along my usual lines: more whump and action, probably about the same level of angst. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Keep an eye on the tags/rating for future chapters!

“You’re that bard!” 

Jaskier only pauses for a second before slipping on his most charming smile and sweeping a bow to the woman behind the tavern’s bar. She’s pointing at him, excitement bright in her eyes, and before he can get a word in edgeways she says, “Jaskier, that’s your name! You came through here a year or so ago, I remember you. You played all night, got us the best takings we’d had in months.” 

Jaskier doesn’t particularly remember performing in this particular little tavern on the back roads of Redania, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t. “And it was my honour to do so, fair lady,” he says, taking her hand and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. A little flirting never hurt anyone and, well, if it’ll get them decent service in the arse end of nowhere, all the better. 

“Will you play for us again tonight?” the woman asks, grabbing his hand and squeezing a little too tight for his liking. “ _Please_. We can offer you rooms at a discounted rate, especially if you bring in as much custom as you did before.” Her face falls, just a little. “The war is hard on us all,” she says, a sigh in her voice and a slump in her shoulders that Jaskier has been a thousand times in the last few months. “Like now. It’s springtime, the sun is shining: we should be packed. But instead?” She gestures at the tavern, only a few handfuls of patrons scattered around the surprisingly clean interior. “It’s like this. But if you played for us?” 

She squeezes tighter, and Jaskier fights back a wince. “I don’t know that I can,” he says, then indicates his throat with his free hand. “My voice is still recovering from a recent illness – I’m not sure—”

“ _Please_ ,” the woman begs. “Food and drinks, too. As much as you can eat.” 

A muscle jumps in Jaskier’s jaw. “I’m not travelling alone,” he says apologetically, “and I hate to think how much my companions would consume – they’re bottomless pits, both of them.” 

“Food for all of you, then,” the woman says, “and drinks for yourself. And a discount on the room.” She pauses, takes his hand in both of hers. “I beg you.” 

Ah, shit. 

“Of course,” Jaskier says, trying not to wince. “I can’t promise the quality, though.” He extricates his hand from hers, rubs at his throat. “I’m really not on top form at the moment.”

She waves aside his objections. “Whatever you do, I’m sure it will be _brilliant_ ,” she says, beaming, and presses an iron room key into his hand. “Thank you, bard. Really.” 

Jaskier smiles as warmly as he can, bows again, and heads to give Geralt the bad news. 

Geralt’s in the stables with Ciri and Roach, predictably, because of course he doesn’t trust the stablehand to do his job properly. He’s getting Roach settled, unloading her saddlebags and passing them to Ciri, whose hood is pulled up around her face despite the warmth of the spring weather. It’s actually drawing more attention to her than having it down, if Jaskier’s honest, but he knows that it’s a habit she’s got into that’s hard to break – and, well, it does hide her distinctively ash-blond hair. “Geralt!” Jaskier says brightly, fiddling with the strap of his lute case. “So, good news: the room is going to be _very_ cheap.” 

Geralt eyes him. “And the bad news?” 

Jaskier’s lips press into a tight line. “I’m performing tonight.” 

Ciri’s green eyes are bright. “I thought we were supposed to be laying low,” she says, and the accusing tone in her voice is so much like Geralt that it makes Jaskier smile. “Not drawing attention to ourselves?” 

“Yes, we were,” Geralt agrees, giving Roach a final pat and slinging his swords over his shoulder. His gaze is level.

Jaskier scoffs. “Like we can really _not_ draw attention to ourselves when you insist on going around with those swords and that scowl.” 

Geralt looks offended. “What’s wrong with my swords?” 

“Nothing, they’re very subtle,” Jaskier says, and Ciri snorts. “But I _wasn’t_ being conspicuous, actually. I just walked in to see if we could get one of their rooms and the barmaid recognised me – apparently I played here some time last year, not that I actually remember.” 

“And she forced you at knifepoint to perform,” Geralt says drily. 

“It was more emotional blackmail, if I’m honest,” Jaskier says, “but yeah, pretty much.” He flashes the key in his hand. “We’ve got a discounted room, free food for all three of us, and all my drinks are on the house. We’ll be out of here first thing in the morning anyway, and it’s not like this is going to be big performance – I’ll be singing in the corner of the tavern, it’s not exactly _fancy_.” 

Geralt studies him for a moment. “I don’t like it,” he says.

“Neither do I,” Jaskier says, as serious as he can manage, dropping his voice. “But we’re not far from Yennefer now, are we – what, a couple of towns to go? She wouldn’t pick a meeting place in a Nilfgaard-controlled area, not when so many people are looking for us.” He smiles at Ciri, reaches out and takes her hand. “You’ll be fine,” he says to her, reassuring and warm. “Don’t worry.” 

“You should have said no,” Geralt says.

Jaskier sighs. “Honestly, I think it would have caused more of a commotion if I’d refused,” he says. “And I did try, Geralt. But the lovely lady behind the bar wasn’t about to take no for an answer.” He shrugs. “I’ll sing badly, play even worse, and hopefully they’ll boo me offstage before long.” 

Geralt hums, clearly not happy about the whole situation – but, to be honest, he’s been wearing the same _I don’t like this_ look pretty much since they left Kaer Morhen. Jaskier’s used to it by now. Geralt huffs to himself, grumbles, “You couldn’t sing badly if you tried.” 

Jaskier laughs. “I love how you take something that would be a compliment on anyone else’s lips and turn it into an insult,” he says, but he knows Geralt doesn’t mean anything by it, not really. Or at least he thinks he doesn’t. “I’ll keep it short, I promise. And hey, maybe if all eyes are on me, no one will be looking at the father and his adorable daughter in the corner.” 

Geralt hums again, unconvinced. 

“Food will be good,” Ciri says. “Especially if it’s _actual_ food, not that horrid hard tack.” 

Geralt frowns at her. “What’s wrong with hard tack?” 

Jaskier grins. “So many things,” he says. “Now, Fiona – shall we go investigate our lovely discounted room?” 

Ciri nods. “I think we should.” 

Jaskier leads Ciri back to the tavern, starkly aware of the tendrils of ash-blonde hair that escape her hood, and knows in his bones that Geralt will follow. 

The room is small but clean, with two narrow beds and a low table in one corner. There’s a basin of cool water on the table and they use it to clean as much as is really worth it, given that they’ll just be getting filthy again on the dusty roads in the morning. Ciri seems to enjoy scrubbing dirt out from under her nails, though, so Jaskier isn’t going to complain. He retrieves his lute from its case, strums a few chords then frowns at the tuning, adjusts a couple of the pegs, strums again. “That’s better,” he says, half to himself, then looks up to find Geralt watching him, a softness in his golden eyes that Jaskier still hasn’t quite got used to seeing directed at him. Geralt doesn’t look away, either, just holds his gaze until Jaskier finds himself fucking _blushing_ —which is, frankly, ridiculous, because he’s seen Geralt in _far_ more compromising positions than this lately without ever _blushing_ —and then the bastard just _smiles_. 

Jaskier feels his heart twist in his chest.

Ciri makes a noise of disgust that, Jaskier notes with interest, is remarkably similar to the noises that Eskel makes when confronted with the olfactory evidence of their night-time activities. “Can you please stop staring at each other?” she asks, full of the petulance of a royal child. “I’m _hungry_.” 

“She has a point,” Geralt rumbles. 

Jaskier feels an attack of the dramatics coming on. “You were the one who was staring at me,” he points out, as arch as he can manage when there’s such unbelievable softness wrapped around his heart. “I take no responsibility for the staring.” 

“He only stares because you give him something to stare at,” Ciri observes bluntly, and before Jaskier can fully parse what she means by that, she’s dragging them both out of the room and downstairs. Jaskier mainly just tries to protect his lute from the worst of Ciri’s roughhousing and is inordinately glad when Geralt gently but firmly detaches her hand from Jaskier’s wrist, slowing her headlong plunge into the tavern with a hand on her shoulder. 

“Stay close to me,” he says. “Don’t draw attention to yourself, okay?” 

“I know, I know,” Ciri says, her tone far more bored than it is accepting, and Geralt glances at Jaskier with exasperation in his eyes before following Ciri into the tavern’s main room. 

Jaskier isn’t entirely sure how he ended up helping to basically raise a Cintran princess who’s currently being sought after by half the continent, but to be honest he imagines it’s not actually that different to raising _any_ teenager whose freedoms are significantly curtailed. A lot of strops and complaining – although, admittedly, most normal parents don’t have to deal with semi-regular skirmishes with Nilfgaardian patrols and bone-trembling nightmares. And, of course, the literal tremors in the earth and the trees and the mountains that come along with those nightmares. It’s a lot, sometimes too much, but Ciri is bright and smart and scared and Jaskier would rather die than let her down. 

“Go on,” Geralt says, annoyance warring with that new softness in his eyes. “Sing your songs. There’ll be food waiting for you when you’re done.” – and then, slowly, carefully, because they’re still slow and careful sometimes, when they have to be, he reaches out, presses a touch to Jaskier’s wrist, warm and firm. 

Jaskier carries that warmth with him through his performance, buoying his heart bright and open in his chest. 

The woman that he’s assuming owns this particular little tavern is right, as it turns out: the inn fills rapidly as Jaskier sings, throwing out the kind of easy, high-spirited ballads that tend to fit best with bright spring days like today. There’s a regular little crowd by the time he’s finished, feet tapping along and coins flashing in their hands on their way to his purse. The bar’s doing a roaring trade, as well, and when Jaskier finally manages to make his excuses and slip away, most of the patrons are well on their way to sliding-under-the-table drunk. He sketches a brief bow to the owner of the tavern, then weaves his way back to the table that Geralt’s sitting at with Ciri, tucked away in a half-hidden corner of the main room. There’s a bowl of some kind of generic stew and a mug of ale waiting for him, and he chatters happily to Ciri as he eats, explaining the story behind one of the legendary stories he sang, elaborating on the myths of the birth of the cockatrice, telling the story of this one time that Geralt fought a cockatrice, somewhere in Kaedwen, was it, Geralt? – and he slipped in a pile of its dung, lost his grip on his sword, and I had to go rushing in to save him, all _very_ heroic.

Geralt snorts. “That’s not quite how I remember it.” 

Jaskier raises an eyebrow in challenge. “And how do _you_ remember it?” 

Geralt drinks before he answers. “You were so scared by the cockatrice that you fell backwards over a fallen log,” he says, quiet amusement threaded through his voice. “The squawk you made as you fell distracted me – and as I turned to check you hadn’t broken your neck or something equally idiotic, I slipped. At which point the cockatrice pinned me down and I had to shout for you to pass me my sword.” 

Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. “Details.” 

Ciri laughs. “ _Important_ details.”

“But still just details,” Jaskier says, flashing her his brightest smile. “It’s all well and good being a terrifying witcher-sorceress, but if you want to properly cultivate your public image, _Fiona_ , you should really listen to me. It’s all about selecting the relevant facts that you want people to remember.” 

“So you leave out the part where _you_ fall over,” Ciri says, “and just talk about the part where _Geralt_ fell over?” 

Jaskier beams. “Exactly,” he says. “And always remember the bit about the dung – audiences _love_ a bit of dung.” 

Ciri nods, storing this all away. “This is what you did with Geralt, isn’t it?” she asks. “With your songs?” 

“It’s what I tried to do, yes,” Jaskier answers, aware of Geralt’s gaze on him, level and steady. “The problem is that I’m fighting against, oh, several hundred years of prejudice against witchers. It’s harder.” He glances up at Geralt, flashes him a soft smile. “But I like a challenge.” 

Ciri nods, storing that away, too. 

They don’t spend too long in the tavern’s main room after Jaskier has finished his food, because nothing’s happened yet, sure, but it’s probably best not to push their luck – and, anyway, they’ve got an early start tomorrow. Ciri takes the smaller of the beds, curls up under the thin blanket and is asleep in moments. Jaskier’s pretty sure that she’s picked up the ability to fall asleep anywhere from the witchers—he’s seen Geralt do it enough times over the years, and Eskel had the same infuriating ability, too—and, if he’s honest, he’s a little jealous. There’s usually too much going on in his head for him to sleep quickly, and tonight he’s still a little wired from his performance, adrenaline and energy jittering through his limbs despite the darkness of the little room and the soft whisper of Ciri’s sleeping breathing. He washes his face in the basin, running wet hands through his hair, then lets out a long breath. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, quiet enough that Ciri doesn’t stir. “Come here.”

For once, Jaskier does as he’s told. 

The bed is narrow enough that one of them should really probably sleep on the floor for the sake of actually getting enough sleep that they won’t be exhausted tomorrow, but there’s no way that either of them is going to suggest it. Jaskier slips into bed and into Geralt’s arms, his back flush to Geralt’s chest, Geralt’s arm draped across his waist. They shift a little around each other until they’re as comfortable as they can be, then Jaskier feels Geralt press a soft, careful kiss to the back of his neck and, well, something loosens in his chest that he didn’t even realise was tight. 

“Love you,” he hears Geralt murmur.

Jaskier smiles in the darkness of the room. “Love you,” he answers, and sleeps. 

Jaskier is woken by the sound of screaming. 

He starts awake so suddenly that he falls out of bed, thudding to the bare floorboards with a sharp cry. His first instinct is to reach for Ciri, to calm her, to hold her as she screams her way through the nightmares – but when he sees her, she’s bolt upright on her bed, eyes wide and lips pressed tight shut. Jaskier’s sleep-fogged brain doesn’t understand for a long moment, but then he sees Geralt, on his feet at the small window, staring out into the blackness of the night – and, oh, shit. 

Screams in the night are never a _good_ thing. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks as quietly as he can manage, scrambling to his feet, going to Ciri and taking her trembling hand in his. 

“Soldiers,” Geralt answers, clipped and short. “Two score at least.” 

Jaskier’s stomach drops, because now that he’s listening, he can hear it, too: boots stamping on the ground, the rustle of weaponry, the sound of low conversation, hushed voices. “Nilfgaard?” he asks. 

“Can’t tell,” Geralt says. “But we can’t risk it.” He moves away from the window, starts tugging on his clothes. “Get dressed, both of you. We’re leaving.” 

Jaskier knows better than to argue.

He’s lacing up his trousers with unsteady hands when there’s a sudden flare of light from the small window, warm and flickering, and a bark of startled voices. Something seizes in his stomach and he looks up at Geralt, wide and panicked. “Is that—” 

“Fire,” Geralt confirms, and then: “ _Fuck_.” He grabs their bags, slings them over his shoulder. “Looks like it’s caught in the next building. We need to get out of here _now_.” 

Jaskier’s not about to disagree. He shrugs into his doublet, grabs his lute, and follows Geralt and Ciri down the stairs – and his instinct tells him to make as little noise as possible, to sneak out of there without anyone noticing, but that’s really not an issue because there are voices behind every door, now, startled, alarmed, and the murmur of soldiers’ voices outside shifts to shouts, angry, panicked. Jaskier’s heart is hammering louder in his chest, adrenaline flooding his heart with lightning as they reach the bottom of the stairs – but the main room is empty, no fire, no soldiers, no danger. 

Maybe they’ll get out of this yet.

Geralt leads them quickly to the stables, where Roach is clearly agitated, hooves stamping, nostrils flared. Jaskier does his best to calm her as Geralt gets her loaded up, saddlebags and Jaskier’s lute strapped firmly to her back – and all the while, the noises from outside are getting louder, closer. Shouts and screams, the clash of weaponry. Jaskier’s heart is practically beating out of his chest. Ciri mounts Roach with the ease born of her royal birth, but Geralt pauses, looks at Jaskier, forehead furrowed. “We have to be fast,” he says, “and Roach can’t carry us all.” 

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. “Take her,” he says, his voice tight. “Take Ciri and get out of here. It’s okay, they’re not after me – I’ll meet you at Yennefer’s.” 

Geralt shakes his head, turns away, dives into the rest of the stable – and comes back with a grey gelding, eyes rolling a little from the smoke and the shouting but saddled and ready to go. 

“Geralt, that’s someone else’s horse,” Jaskier points out. 

“Don’t care,” Geralt says, shoving the reins into his hand. “I’m not leaving you behind.” 

Jaskier’s heart twists, pain and love, and he nods, swings himself up into the saddle. “If someone tries to kill me for stealing their horse,” he says, bright and sparking to hide the fear that’s still throbbing behind his eyes, “it’s your fault.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer. He mounts Roach behind Ciri, takes the reins from her, then catches Jaskier’s gaze. “Stay close,” he says, voice tight – and Jaskier knows Geralt more than well enough to hear the subtext. _I won’t lose you, not again._

Jaskier nods, and follows Geralt out of the stables. 

The little town’s streets are a melee of fire and blood, a handful of townsfolk standing firm against the veritable flood of armed men – and, oh, shit, whoever set that fire fucked up because it’s spreading, now, leaping from roof to roof, catching in the fresh thatch and the dry wood. Jaskier hears Geralt swear sharply as some unfortunate soldier tries to rush Roach, only to die quick and noisy on Geralt’s sword, but then they’re galloping, Jaskier crouched as low on the gelding’s back as he can manage, trying his best to focus on following Roach’s lashing tail as best he can. Shouts follow them as they crash through the burning town, and an arrow whistles so close over Jaskier’s head that he swears he feels it part his hair. He barks a shout, squeezes the gelding tight with his thighs, and follows Geralt down a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for the horses to fit. 

Jaskier’s breath is loud and panting in his ears. His heartbeat is an echo under the night sky. 

There’s a crumbling, creaking sound from the burning building to the right, and all of a sudden there’s a slurry of wood and roof tile and flame plunging to the ground in front of the gelding’s hooves. The horse rears up, throws Jaskier to the dirt with a ricochet of pain up his spine, and for a moment all he can do is lie there, flat on his back, winded and in pain, just staring up at the small patch of darkness he can see between the fire and the groaning buildings. 

“ _Jaskier!_ ” 

Jaskier rolls onto his stomach, vomits a little into the dirt, then looks up – and abruptly wants to vomit all over again. 

The alleyway is blocked, piled high with the detritus of a burning building that, extremely helpfully, is still on fire. Jaskier can just about make out Geralt on the other side, still astride Roach with Ciri in his arms, and there’s fear blazing loud on his expression. “Shit,” Jaskier rasps, dragging himself to his feet – and then the whole situation just gets worse because, for starters, the grey gelding has bolted and, just to complete the package, he can hear jackboots behind him. “Fuck,” he says again, then turns back to Geralt. “ _Go!_ ” he calls over the crackle of the flames. 

“No!” Ciri shouts, at the same time as Geralt barks, “We’re coming back for you!” 

Jaskier shakes his head, glances around. The alleyway is narrow, yes, but he can see that there’s an even narrower snicket branching off the alley a few metres behind them, too narrow for horses, shadowed and dark. He’s got no idea where it goes but it’s better than waiting around for the soldiers that he can hear getting close – and he turns back to Geralt, catches his gaze, tries not to look as terrified as he is. “They’re not after me, I’ll be fine,” he calls. 

Geralt’s eyes flare. “Nilfgaard is after you, as well,” he snaps. 

Jaskier shrugs, deliberately putting to the back of his mind the Nilfgaardians who drugged him, the mercenaries who cornered him in a stable. No time to worry about that. “Then if I don’t meet you at Yennefer’s rendezvous in time, you come back for me,” he says firmly. “It’s not far, if you ride hard you can get there in a day or so. But Geralt, you _need_ to get Ciri safe. I’ll be right behind you as soon as I can. And if I’m not, you can come and play the hero and save me, okay?” He pauses for a second, and when Geralt doesn’t answer, he says, “ _Okay?_ ” 

There’s no other choice, and Geralt knows it.

“Jaskier, no!” Ciri calls, her voice pained, but Geralt just winds his arm closer around her waist.

“Be careful,” he says, insistent and firm, then wheels Roach around and sets off into the night. 

Jaskier runs. 

The snicket is so narrow that at times he has to squeeze through it sideways, the catches of windows dragging at his clothes, boots slipping on the smooth cobbles underfoot. He doesn’t think he’s being followed and he’s pretty sure no one saw him slip into the little crack in the wall that lead to the snicket, but nonetheless his heart is in his throat. He’s been in danger before, sure, but the last few times he’s actually been at any real risk of harm, he’s had a witcher to back him up – Eskel before the long winter at Kaer Morhen, and, of course, Geralt since then, so careful with him, so protective it’s almost funny. Except now he’s alone, stumbling through a narrow crack between burning houses, soot staining his clothes, what he’s pretty sure is a solid cut across his forehead from where he hit the ground, blood seeping into his eyes – and he’ll be fine, he knows where to go once he finds his way out of this fucking maze of houses, he’ll be right on Geralt’s heels once he manages to find a fucking horse, but for now? For now, he’s alone.

Jaskier grits his teeth and pushes onwards. 

Whatever resistance was being posed by this town’s inhabitants to the mass of armed soldiers rampaging through its streets is clearly dying down. When Jaskier comes to a broad street that he vaguely recognises as the street they trotted in on this afternoon—thank fuck, that means he knows where to go from here—it’s practically deserted, one limp body that he’s not going to look too hard at crumpled in the gutter and a small pool of blood a few metres away that suggests that the poor fuck got a good stab in before he died. Jaskier tries his best to keep to the shadows, heading quietly towards the outskirts of the town. He moves slower than he wants to, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he’ll just look even more suspicious if he runs, and it’s working, fuck, it’s working, he can get out of this fucking backwater, find Geralt, find Ciri, and—

“ _There!_ ” 

Soldiers, six of them, with bloodied helms and roses embroidered on their liveries, lit by the flickering tongues of the fires. “Get him!” one of them bellows, raw from smoke. 

“Shit,” Jaskier husks, and runs. 

He doesn’t run fast enough. 

Geralt rides through the night, his heart frozen and heavy in his chest. 

Ciri protests shrilly on their way out of the little town, grabbing at his arms, demanding that he turn Roach around, that they go find Jaskier, shouting that they can’t leave him behind, they _can’t_ – and the guttural, animal part of Geralt’s mind agrees. The rational part, though, knows that Jaskier’s right: there was no way for him to get over that mess of fire and debris, no way for Geralt to get to _him_ , and it can’t be a coincidence that a whole godsdamned army of rose-liveried soldiers turn up just after they roll into town. They have to keep Ciri safe, they _have_ to. And Geralt knows, somewhere in his hindbrain, that Jaskier would willingly give his life to save hers. 

That doesn’t mean that he has to fucking _like_ it. 

Ciri falls asleep against his chest, eventually, face streaked with soot and tears. He holds her steady with one arm, guides Roach with the other, and they gallop on down the road that will lead them to another little town called Berrygrove, eventually. That’s where they’ll meet Yennefer, that’s where they’ll wait until Jaskier comes tripping along on their heels, that’s where Geralt will grab him close and kiss him and make sure that he never lets him go again. 

The sun rises, slow and steady. Geralt sort of feels like the sky should be red-streaked and heavy, not bright blue and cloudless, and he abruptly realises that that’s the kind of thing Jaskier would say, the kind of thing he’d sing about. His heart twists, painful and rich, and just for a moment he remembers Jaskier sprawled out in his bed— _their_ bed—at Kaer Morhen, naked and flushed, eyes blazingly blue in the firelight, looking up at Geralt like he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. 

Geralt’s lips twist in a snarl, and he urges Roach on faster. 

Ciri wakes mid-morning, but the only sign that she’s no longer awake is the increase in the regularity of her breaths. She doesn’t talk to Geralt, doesn’t even look at him, just stays heavy against his chest and stares along the road ahead. 

“He’ll be fine,” Geralt says eventually, half-shouting over the clatter of Roach’s hooves. “He’ll meet us at Yennefer’s. He’ll be _fine_.” 

Ciri doesn’t answer, but that’s okay. Frankly, Geralt’s saying it more for his own benefit than for hers. 

It’s early evening by the time Roach trots into Berrygrove, her flanks heaving, her muzzle flecked with foam. Geralt reins her in on the outskirts, dismounts and helps Ciri down, and they walk the rest of the way, feet heavy, shoulders slumped. Geralt’s running on maybe a handful of hours’ rest, and Ciri slept in the saddle, yes, but that’s not exactly the best form way to regain your strength – so they’re both exhausted, drained from adrenaline and fear and sleeplessness, and all Geralt wants to do is find Yennefer and then _find Jaskier._

“Where are we meeting her?” Ciri asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken all day. 

Geralt’s voice is hoarse. “Her letter said she has a house near the river,” he says. 

Ciri nods, then immediately collars a passerby, asks in her most imperious voice for directions to the river. The man points her in the right direction while looking vaguely intimidated, and Geralt should probably give her a lecture about, you know, keeping her head down and being unmemorable, but it’s been a long fucking day so, well, fuck it. They make their way to the river, Roach’s head hanging low, her breath snorting in long huffs, and Geralt strokes his fingers through her mane gently, trying not to think about kissing Jaskier in the stables at Kaer Morhen, pressing him up against the wooden stalls and feeling his heart pound rabbit-fast in his chest. 

Ahead of him, Ciri comes to a halt. “Geralt?” she says, jolting him out of him memories because her voice is… strangled? Afraid? 

Geralt’s alert in a heartbeat. 

They’ve reached the river, its waters gleaming blue in the spring sunlight. There are little boats tied up by the edge of the boardwalk, quaintly painted in bright colours, mostly barges and flat-bottomed transport vessels – that’s probably where most of the town’s revenue comes from, Geralt imagines, the trade that the boats bring with them. There are a fair few people milling around aimlessly, more people than he’d expect, actually, and he grips Ciri’s shoulder, pulls her closer to him – and that’s when he notices it. There’s a row of houses facing the river, tall, narrow buildings leaning up against each other, their windows blank eyes onto the world. This must be the houses that Yennefer meant, must be where she wanted to meet them. 

There’s one missing.

Ciri shrinks back against Geralt’s side, her hand unconsciously gripping Geralt’s wrist. 

One of the buildings is just… _gone_. And by ‘gone’, Geralt doesn’t mean that it’s vanished, or it’s missing, no, he means that it’s been _destroyed_. All that’s left is ragged planks, shattered bricks, slivers of glass and rags of soft furnishings, spattered across the riverfront. It’s an orgy of destruction, shattered, broken – and all of a sudden, the medallion around Geralt’s neck is trembling against his chest. 

He takes a sharp breath. “Magic did this,” he says. “Mages, they fought.”

Ciri’s fingers twist tighter. “Yennefer?” 

“Must be,” Geralt answers, his jaw tight. “Fuck.” He pauses for a second, Roach’s reins in one hand, Ciri’s hand in the other. “We need to find out what happened here.” 

“We know what happened here,” Ciri says, tight and quiet enough that he barely hears it even with his witcher hearing. “They came for her, for Yennefer.” Panic is seeping into her voice. “They took her, like they took Jaskier.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer, his heart thudding loud in his chest – because he doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t even want to acknowledge the _possibility_ , but he’s never really believed in coincidences. A flood of armed men in the night just after they arrive in a new town, splitting them up, and now they get to their rendezvous with Yennefer – and there’s a gaping hole where her flat is supposed to be? 

They left Jaskier. _Geralt_ left Jaskier. 

Fear starts to trickle thick and slick into his heart. 

“What do we do now?” Ciri asks, her voice so horribly, horribly small. 

Geralt takes a steadying breath, forcing his heart to slow. “We’ll find somewhere to stay,” he says. “And then I’ll find out what happened here. If it was Yen, then we’ll—”

“ _Geralt_.” 

Geralt spins on his heel, dropping Roach’s reins, reaching for his sword, and pushing Ciri behind him in one smooth move. He’s blaming the sickness coiling through his stomach for the fact that he doesn’t recognise the voice because, fuck, it’s _Eskel_ , pacing towards them with a deep furrow in his forehead. “What are you doing here, Eskel?” Geralt asks, more surprised than anything else.

Eskel doesn’t answer. “Come with me,” he says, short and clipped. “I’ll explain.” 

Ciri ducks out from behind Geralt. “Do you know what happened?” she asks, her voice tight. “Do you know what happened to Yennefer?” 

Eskel’s lips are tight. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.” He pauses, his gaze darting from Ciri to Geralt to the lute case strapped to Roach’s back, and concern starts to spread across his face. “Geralt,” he says, slow and level, and Geralt remembers the protectiveness in Eskel’s expression when he first arrived at Kaer Morhen with Ciri, remembers Jaskier’s smell all over him. “Geralt,” Eskel says, “where the fuck is Jaskier?” 

Geralt thinks about Jaskier’s face, soot-streaked and afraid, staring up at him through the flames with such fucking _bravery_ in his eyes – and then he looks back at the ruin of the house on the waterfront, all the devastation, at the _violence_. 

“We left him,” Ciri says, her voice high and tight. “There were soldiers, we got separated. We left him behind.” 

“You _left him_?” Eskel snaps. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Geralt says, nostrils flaring, meets Eskel’s angry gaze. “I wouldn’t have left him if I had a fucking _choice_.” 

Eskel’s expression is tight. “Fuck,” he spits, then: “Geralt, we have to talk.” 

Geralt’s gut twists. “What is it?” 

Eskel shakes his head. “Not here,” he says, gaze sweeping the street, the river, the butchered row of houses. It’s like he’s looking for something, looking _out_ for something, and that really just makes the whole situation worse, if Geralt’s honest. “Come on,” Eskel says. “I’ll explain.” 

Geralt knows deep in his heart that he’s just made the worst mistake of his godsdamned life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original plan for this fic would be that it would have four or five long chapters, much like _The Path Not Taken_ , but for some reason the rhythm of the chapters is making them shorter - so I've adjusted the number to eight! I've also actually written a ~~very rough~~ chapter plan for this fic, too, which is the first time in over ten years of fandom I've actually done that...

Eskel leads them to a small inn on the outskirts of Berrygrove. They sit at a table at the back of the small common area with bowls of soup and mugs of ale, and there might be fear and nausea crawling through Geralt’s insides right now but it’s still been over a day since he ate – and he’s fucking hungry. He eats almost as ravenously as Ciri does, and Eskel grabs them a couple of fresh rolls, pushes them into their hands. “You two look like shit,” he says eventually, when Geralt’s bowl is mostly empty. 

“Haven’t slept,” Geralt answers shortly. 

Eskel’s expression is unreadable. “Tell me what happened.” 

Ciri just watches Geralt, something almost accusing in her eyes. 

“We stopped for the night a few towns to the east,” Geralt answers. “Got woken in the middle of the night by armed men setting the whole fucking town on fire. We made a break for it, but half a building collapsed between us and Jaskier. His horse threw him, there was no way to get to him – and those fucking soldiers were closing in.” 

“You had to get Ciri out of there,” Eskel says softly, a spasm of understanding crossing his face. “Shit.” 

“He told us to go,” Ciri says, her fist clenching uselessly around her spoon. “He told us to leave him.” 

“He said he’d meet us in Berrygrove,” Geralt says quietly. “He knew the location of our rendezvous with Yen, he was going to get to safety and come find us here.” 

“Except now your sorceress is gone, too,” Eskel says, teeth gritted. “That doesn’t look good.” 

Ciri is silent and still at Geralt’s side. 

“What are you doing here, Eskel?” Geralt asks, his fingers itching for his sword, wanting to _do something_ instead of just sitting here and fucking _talking_. “You left Kaer Morhen before us – I didn’t think we’d see you for months, maybe not until next winter.” 

Eskel shrugs. “I had a contract ten miles or so south of here,” he says. “A bruxa nest – it was nasty. Took a few days off afterwards, got chatting to this travelling salesman-type in the local tavern. He said he was on his way north, mentioned the name of this place. I remembered that you’d mentioned this was where you were meeting your witch around this date, so I figured I’d wander this way, maybe meet up if I was lucky – and if not, well.” He huffs a laugh. It’s wry and bitter. “There tend to be plenty of contracts when sorcerers are around. Figured I might be able to earn some coin.”

“When did you arrive?” Geralt asks. 

“Two days ago,” Eskel answers, his gaze shuttered. “Right at the tail end of the fight that destroyed that house on the riverfront.” 

Geralt stiffens. “There was a fight?” 

“Three mages,” Eskel says tightly, “and a small fucking army. I’m assuming one of them was your Yennefer – black hair, violet eyes, a habit of swearing at the top of her voice when under pressure?” 

A muscle jumps in Geralt’s jaw. “That’s her.” 

Eskel sighs. “Shit,” he says, leaning forward. “That’s what I thought.” His expression is tight. “Trust me, Geralt, if I’d got here earlier I would have got involved – but it was already too late by the time I figured out what was going on.” 

“What happened to her?” Geralt grinds out. 

“They took her,” Eskel says flatly. “Knocked her out, I think, loaded her up in some wagon and took her. Got out of town pretty rapidly, heading west.” He shakes his head. “I would have followed, but the town was a mess – those soldiers weren’t exactly friendly to the locals, you know? There was a lot of damage, a lot of wounded. I stayed to help – but I’m not the only one who stayed.” Eskel doesn’t do anything as obvious as glance over his shoulder, but Geralt is all of a sudden very aware of the other patrons of the inn, far enough away that they’re hopefully out of earshot. “I’ve seen a couple of men wearing the same crest,” Eskel says. “Not too many of them, and I think they’re trying to look like they’re off-duty – but I’m pretty sure there’s a bunch of spies in rose livery keeping an eye on this town.” 

The breath stutters in Geralt’s lungs. “Rose livery?” 

Eskel nods. “Yeah.” 

Geralt grimaces. “Last night,” he says. “The soldiers.” 

Understanding dawns in Eskel’s eyes. “Rose livery.”

Geralt nods. 

“Shit,” Eskel swears, his lips pinched, then sits back in his chair. “At least that makes it simple,” he says. “One lot of kidnappers means we only have to find one solution to get them both back.” 

“We don’t know for sure that they have Jaskier,” Geralt grinds out. 

Eskel gives him a flat look. “He’s a bard, Geralt,” he says. “He’s good at a lot of things, primarily making a lot of noise and annoying people. And yeah, okay, he’s picked up a fair few things by travelling with you, I’m probably the best person to know that, he saved my life – but he’s not a _fighter_.” He pauses, his gaze level. “You knew that when you left him, Geralt. _He_ would have known that when he told you to leave him.” 

“Eskel—”

“I don’t blame you, Geralt,” Eskel says heavily. “And I’m pretty sure Jaskier doesn’t, either. It’s not your bloody fault.” 

“No,” Ciri says, quiet, painful. “No, it’s mine.”

All the anger goes flying out of Geralt’s head at the guilt and self-loathing in her voice. “No,” he says, short and sharp. “It isn’t.” 

Ciri ignores him. “They’re looking for me,” she says, chin held high, green eyes sparking in the dim light inside the inn. “That’s why they tried to capture Jaskier before the winter, that’s why they’ve taken him now. That’s why they’ve taken _Yennefer_ , that’s why they burned buildings, that’s why they killed people. Because of _me_.” 

Geralt takes her hand, squeezes it tight in his. “We don’t know why these men kidnapped Yen,” he says, as firm as he can manage, “and we don’t even know for sure that they _have_ kidnapped Jaskier. He might be a bard, but that doesn’t mean he’s useless. He can run, he can hide.” Ciri’s shaking her head so he squeezes her hand again, turns to face her. “And that doesn’t matter anyway,” he says, the words blunt and inelegant in his mouth. Fuck, he wishes he had Jaskier’s tongue right now, his easy way with words. “You are not to blame for the actions of other people. You are _never_ to blame for the actions of other people.” 

Ciri doesn’t believe him, he can see it in her eyes. “They’re hunting me,” she says, and Geralt is quietly glad that she has enough sense to keep her voice down. “I’m the one they want. That makes it _my fault_.”

“Stop,” Eskel says, firm and flat. “Both of you.” 

“But—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Eskel snaps, cutting Ciri off with a raised hand. “Arguing doesn’t help anyone.” He meets Geralt’s gaze, sombre, worried. “You’re both exhausted,” he says, “and, frankly, you could both use a wash. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re still both pretty covered in soot, and I know I’m not the only one who can smell the smoke. As it stands, you’re too conspicuous.” 

Geralt hates the fact that Eskel’s right. He can feel the tiredness eating at the edges of his control, smell the smoke curling off his cloak, and Ciri’s pale cheeks are a mess of soot, windburn, and tear-streaks. They attracted more than a few suspicious glances as they followed Eskel through Berrygrove to the damn inn, shit, they should have been more careful, fuck, Geralt’s just made everything worse already – and there it is. The spiralling. The panicking. He doesn’t spiral when he’s rested, doesn’t panic when he’s slept enough. 

“I’ve got a room upstairs,” Eskel says, fishing a key out of his pockets and sliding it across the table. “Use it. Clean yourself up, sleep.” 

“We can’t just _sleep_ ,” Ciri protests, but Geralt squeezes her hand firmly, quietens her. 

“What are you going to do?” he asks, doing his level best to take all the fear and all the horror and shove it down somewhere deep and dark in his chest. 

Eskel folds his arms, cracks his neck almost absently. “I’ve made a few contacts in this town,” he says thoughtfully. “The alderman, the mayor’s wife, a couple of the rivermen. I’ll ask around, see what I can find out about those soldiers. Find out who they belong to, where they come from. Any… sympathies.” His gaze darts to Ciri, and Geralt knows what _sympathies_ means: Nilfgaard. Do the fucking Nilfgaardians have Jaskier and Yennefer already? – and the thought settles bitter and hard in his stomach, a block of ice that isn’t going to thaw, because Yennefer is Yennefer, she’s a sorceress, she survived Sodden, she can survive whatever any fucking Nilfgaardian torturer wants to throw at her. 

But Jaskier? 

“I can’t just _sleep_ ,” Ciri says, softer. 

Eskel reaches over the table, takes her other hand. “You have to,” he says, not unkind. “You remember what Vesemir says about preparation?” 

“It’s more than half the battle,” Ciri answers like she’s repeating it by rote. 

“Exactly,” Eskel says. “And for this battle, you and Geralt need to prepare by getting some rest, okay?” He looks up at Geralt, and his expression brooks no argument. “Right, Geralt?” 

“Right,” Geralt says, and tries not to think about how he’s spent so many months sleeping with Jaskier in his arms that he’s not sure he knows how to sleep without him anymore. He pushes to his feet to avoid that thought, tugs Ciri with him. “Let’s go. Eskel?” 

“Yeah?” 

A muscle twitches in Geralt’s jaw again. “Stay safe.” 

Eskel’s gaze is serious. “Go,” is all he says, and Geralt goes. 

Jaskier is thrown unceremoniously to his knees on the cold stone floor, hands tied tight behind his back, ankles bound together and a gag wrenched between his lips. He’s had a fucking _bag_ over his head since he was run down in that shitty burning town, since a squad of rough-handed, dead-eyed soldiers pinned him down to the cobbles and crowed their triumph – and all of a sudden that bag is being torn away, leaving him squinting into the flaring hot light of a torch. He takes in his surroundings as much as he can—three stone walls, one wall of bare iron bars, a metal ring sunk into the floor with a chain attached, oh _bollocks_ —before he’s being forced down to lie on his stomach, cheek pressed to the floor, a boot heavy on his back. He makes an unintelligible noise around the gag in his mouth that’s roundly ignored by the soldiers—guards?—pinning him down, then kicks out when he feels hands grabbing at his ankles.

There’s a curse, and a sudden punch lands to his right kidney. “We’re fucking untying you, arsehole,” an angry voice says as he’s blinking through the pain, and, oh, all of a sudden the ropes around his ankles disappear – and for half a second, Jaskier wonders if things might be looking up.

Except then he feels something cold and heavy snap into place around his ankle and, ah, _fuck_. 

That same voice chuckles, and the ropes around Jaskier’s wrists are cut, too. “You’re chained to the ring in the floor, bard,” it says, and Jaskier’s being rolled on his back, still squinting into the light. The man above him is thick-set and bearded, a scar running along his jaw and a missing tooth speaking to a life of aggression and violence. Jaskier figures it’s probably best to do as he says for the minute. “Now, I’m going to take the gag off,” the bearded man says. “Try to bite me, and I’ll have my men punch you in your balls. There’s three of them, so that’ll be three punches. You going to behave?”

Jaskier grits his teeth, but nods. 

“Good boy,” the bearded man says, _ruffling his hair_. “Here we go.” He slips the gag out of Jaskier’s mouth, drool-slick and stained a little with the blood from his split lip, then unties it and tosses it to one of his men. 

“Where the fuck am I?” Jaskier snaps as soon as he can, trying desperately to make it sound like he’s angry rather than terrified. 

“You’re in the cells,” the bearded man says unhelpfully. “That’s all you need to know for now. There’s a dozen guards between you and the rest of the castle, and then there’s another hundred between the castle and the way out. So, long story short, you’re not going anywhere so you may as well save your strength and not bother trying to escape.” 

“Thanks for the tip,” Jaskier spits.

The bearded man pats him on the fucking head. “You _are_ a good boy,” he says, slick with amusement. “Far better behaved than that bloody mage. I think we’re going to get along just fine.” 

“You won’t be offended if I don’t take that as a compliment.” 

The bearded man laughs and gets to his feet. “Step back,” he says to his men, and then Jaskier’s alone, flat on his back in a dimly lit cell. 

He pushes up, scrabbles away from them as much as he can – but is brought up short by the heavy manacle around his ankle, attached firmly to the ring in the floor by a length of chain that’s barely a foot long. He swears, looks up at his captors with as much righteous indignation as he can muster. “Where am I supposed to fucking piss?” 

A thankfully-empty bucket is thrown at his chest. “He wants high-quality service, this one,” the bearded man says, and his muscle-bound friends laugh harshly. “Then again, he is a viscount, isn’t he? Used to the finer things in life.” 

Jaskier freezes. They know who he is? That can only be a bad sign. 

“Settle in, your lordship,” the bearded man says, sketching a truly awful bow, and Jaskier resists the urge to correct his form. He also manages to suppress the urge to say anything sarcastic or rude as his new jailers traipse away down the corridor, slamming the steel bars of the front of his cell—his cage—behind them. He sits there in silence for a long moment, trying to get his panicky breathing under control – and then once the footsteps have died away, once he’s fairly certain they’re not going to come back and threaten to tenderise his genitals again, he grabs at the manacle around his ankle and starts an absolutely fruitless attempt to _get it off_. 

“Jaskier?” 

Jaskier freezes, looks up. “ _Yennefer?_ ” 

There, in the cell opposite his, one pale hand wrapped around the bars, is Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg, a bruise bloomed across one cheek, her black hair lank and greasy, violet eyes practically _glowing_ in the dim light. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jaskier asks, pretty sure his voice is pitching a lot higher than usual. 

“I could ask you the same question,” Yennefer answers, her voice tight – then, much to Jaskier’s surprise, her gaze flickers to the manacle around his ankle, his bloody lip, the ripped front of his doublet. She almost look _concerned_. “Are you alright?” 

This whole situation is so fucking surreal that, for a moment, Jaskier has no idea what to say. 

Yennefer’s expression fills with exasperation. “Bard.” 

“I’m okay,” Jaskier says almost automatically, then reassesses: “Apart from being kidnapped and being given a bucket to piss in.” 

Yennefer indicates her own face. “You’re bleeding.” 

Jaskier touches the gash in his forehead, the split in his lip. “Had a little argument with some lovely but violent gentlemen in the middle of the night,” he says, trying to sound brighter than he feels. “Nothing serious.” He peers at her, at the yellow-green bruise across her face. “You?” 

“I’m fine,” Yennefer answers. 

Jaskier frowns at her, then crawls closer to the bars, swearing sharply when he’s dragged up short by the chain around his ankle. “Why are you still here?” he asks. “I’ve seen you in action with your… magical sorceress bullshit. Pretty sure you could snap this stupid thing—” He shakes his ankle, rattles the chain. “—in half with a thought.” 

Yennefer _snarls_. It’s remarkably similar to Geralt’s way of expressing his frustration and for a second that twists something bitter in Jaskier’s stomach – although that’s probably not what he should be thinking about right now. Yennefer shifts, comes further into the faint light, pulls her hair away from her neck – and, oh shit, there’s a slim metal collar around her neck, snug enough that she can’t even get a finger underneath without cutting off her air. Now that he’s looking, Jaskier sees similar cuffs around her wrists and even her ankles. “They came prepared,” she says. 

Jaskier’s heart thuds louder in his chest. “Dimeritium?” 

Yennefer nods. “My magic is completely suppressed,” she says bitterly. “Trust me, bard, I’ve _tried_. I’m weak as a fucking kitten right now.” 

Jaskier laughs, surprised by how manic it sounds. “Welcome to humanity,” he says faintly. 

“It’s shit,” Yennefer says flatly. 

“Isn’t it just?” Jaskier agrees, and feels fear flood higher in his chest. “So we can’t get out?” 

“I can’t get us out, no,” Yennefer answers. 

“And where are we?”

“No idea.” 

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “Ah, that’s less than ideal.” 

Yennefer’s eyes flash. “Isn’t it just?” 

They both fall silent for a moment. 

“A viscount?” Yennefer asks after a moment, studying him with an expression he can’t quite place. 

Jaskier shrugs. “In another life,” he answers.

Yennefer seems to accept that. 

They’re silent again. It’s strange, really, because they’ve apparently both been kidnapped by the same person, or people, or cabal, or whatever, and therefore they’re allies in this weird, fucked-up situation, they must be, they have to be – but at the same time, it’s not exactly like they’re… _friends_. The last time Jaskier saw Yennefer was on the top of that bloody mountain where they both got their hearts broken by the same idiot witcher and, well, under different circumstances that might be something to bond over, sure, but this isn’t exactly a tavern with a decent selection of spirits behind the bar. 

Yennefer shifts, clearly just as uncomfortable as Jaskier is. “We’re not the only ones here,” she says. “I’m not sure exactly how many cells there are, I was unconscious when they brought me in, but at least three of them are full.” 

Jaskier cranes his neck as much as he can, but being chained to a ring in the floor is really limiting his lines of sight. He can just about make out a dimly-human shape in the cell next to Yennefer, but whoever it is is curled away from them, purposely not engaging. “Have you spoken to any of them?” Jaskier asks, turning his attention back to Yennefer, and then, because it seems pertinent: “How long have you been here, anyway?” 

“A day or so, I think,” Yennefer answers, her gaze guarded. “There’s no natural light so it’s hard to tell. And I’ve tried to speak to them, yes, but no one seems to want to talk.” Her eyes flash. “At least you’re a half-decent conversationalist.” 

“Why, Yennefer, I’m flattered,” Jaskier deadpans. 

“Don’t be,” she answers, and Jaskier might be losing his mind already but he’s pretty sure he can hear humour curling in her voice. 

Jaskier settles into as comfortable a sitting position as he can, the chain keeping him just out of reach of the cell’s bars. “How did they get you?” he asks softly. “Powerful sorceress like you, I would’ve thought you’d rip anyone apart who came for you.” 

Yennefer’s lip curls. “Someone drugged me,” she says, stark and angry. “I don’t know how, maybe in my wine. I was disoriented, and then two mages I’ve never met before turned up at my door with a posse of human soldiers.” Her lips press tight together. “I fought, but I was alone and they had the advantage. People died, not all of them innocent.” 

“Do you know why?” Jaskier asks, his mouth oddly dry, pushing the image of flame-flickering bodies under his horse’s hooves from his mind. 

“They weren’t exactly forthcoming,” Yennefer says. “And it’s not like there are many visitors, down here.” She pauses, clearly turning something over in her mind, then looks back at him. “You?” 

Jaskier shrugs. “No mages, same posse,” he answers. “Got separated from Geralt. I was something of a fish in a barrel after that.” 

Surprise flashes across Yennefer’s face. “You were with Geralt?” 

Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut. “Yeah,” he says, and all of a sudden his heart is hammering in his chest for a whole other reason. “We were coming to meet you in Berrygrove.” He pauses, bites his tongue. “Did he not tell you?” 

“His letters didn’t mention that you were with him,” Yennefer answers, her expression unreadable in the dim light. 

Something that feels suspiciously similar to that same old heartbreak twists in Jaskier’s chest. “Of course he didn’t,” he says, papering over the cracks with a smile, then barks a laugh. “Maybe it’s best that we met like _this_ , then. You might have stabbed me if I’d just showed up on your doorstep without warning.” 

“Come now, bard,” Yennefer says. “If I was going to stab you, I’d have done it years ago.” – and, well, isn’t that the strangest thing about this whole bizarre situation? She’s trying to offer him _comfort_. “But I suppose that does offer an answer to one question,” Yennefer says, a careful change of subject that Jaskier appreciates. “I imagine that the... company we’ve been keeping is why we’ve both ended up here.” Jaskier knows what she means. Neither of them is foolish enough to mention Ciri in a place like this.

Jaskier frowns, fingers tapping absently at the manacle around his ankle. “Maybe,” he says slowly, peering again at the faint shape he can make out in the cell next to Yennefer’s. “But what about the others down here? How do they fit in? They don’t exactly… keep the same company as we do.” 

Yennefer studies him. “What’s the alternative?” she asks quietly, steadily.

Jaskier is unreasonably glad that she’s not just dismissing him out of hand. “I don’t know,” he says. “But those soldiers, they know who I am – and I’m not just talking about recognising Jaskier the bard.” 

“They know you as Jaskier the viscount,” Yennefer supplies. 

“Julian, technically,” Jaskier corrects. “But yes. And think about it: they knew enough about you to make sure they drugged you before sending two mages after you.” He pauses, laughs. “Under different circumstances, that might count as flattery.” 

“It means they know us,” Yennefer says, ignoring his nervous attempts at jokes. “It means we’re not just… impulsive captures. This was researched. This was _planned_.” 

A cold hand settles around Jaskier’s heart. “When you put it like that, it sounds downright terrifying,” he says, and doesn’t quite manage to smile. He pauses, stares at the collar around Yennefer’s neck. “Any chance you can get that thing off?” he asks. 

Yennefer’s lips twist. “There’s a lock,” she says, turning her head and lifting her hair so Jaskier can see. It’s small, barely visible in the dim light, but he can see it: a small, delicate keyhole at the base of her neck. “It’s the same on the others, too. Which implies there’s a key, but like I said – I was unconscious when they put the fucking thing on.” 

“So you have no idea who has the key?” Jaskier surmises. 

“No,” Yennefer answers. “I’d guess one of the mages who captured me, but I can’t be sure.” 

“Don’t suppose they teach you to pick locks at sorceress school?” 

Yennefer laughs, and it’s short and bitter and full of tension but it’s still a _laugh_. “Unfortunately not,” she says, then eyes him, head tilted. “And I suppose that’s a skill all viscounts learn, is it?” 

Jaskier kicks out with his manacled leg. “If I could, do you really think I’d still have this on?” 

Yennefer hums, a surprisingly Geralt-like sound, and settles back against the bars of her cell. She studies Jaskier a moment longer, expression flickering in the shadows cast by the torches, then says, “You should get some rest. Try to sleep.” 

Jaskier eyes the hard floor. “It’s not exactly a feather bed.” 

Yennefer laughs again, less bitter than before. “I imagine you slept in worse places all those years you spent in the company of a witcher,” she says, no spite in her voice. 

There it is again, that twist of pain in Jaskier’s chest. He lets out a long breath, looks down at his hands. “He really didn’t mention me in his letters?” he asks, awkward, embarrassed, because he watched Geralt write those letters at Kaer Morhen, laid sprawled out in their bed one late-winter morning, running his fingers through one of the soft pelts that adorned Geralt’s bed. He watched the way that Geralt’s hair fell around his face, watched the focus in his eyes, watched the scratch of the quill across the parchment – and then when Geralt was done, when he left the letter there to dry, Jaskier reached out, caught him by his ink-stained fingers, pulled him back to bed. The whole morning got a lot more exciting after that, skin and heat and spit, until Lambert came and hammered on the door, shouting that Geralt was late for training and, hey, Jaskier, if you need me to come in and give him a hand just say the word, I know he can’t compare to me but I guess he’s _trying_. 

“He didn’t,” Yennefer says. “All he said was that he’d be able to meet me in Redania around the middle of March. He asked after my health, mentioned a few things that he thought I’d find interesting about… mutual friends of ours.” She pauses. “But he never said anything about you.” 

Geralt isn’t good with his words, Jaskier knows that. He’s witnessed first hand exactly _how_ not good Geralt is with his words several times by now, so he gets it, of course he does. Explaining to your former lover, a stunningly-gorgeous, terrifyingly-powerful mage who you’ve agreed to raise a witcher-sorceress-princess with, that you’re now fucking a lowly human bard, well, that can’t be easy. To be honest, to the borderline-immortals that Jaskier seems to have found himself wrapped up in, that would probably just be _embarrassing_. So it makes sense that Geralt wouldn’t mention it. It makes sense that he wouldn’t say anything. 

Jaskier’s heart is hammering so hard against his ribs he thinks he might pass out. 

“Jaskier—”

“You’re right,” Jaskier interrupts abruptly. “I’m going to try to rest. Who knows what excitement might get thrown at us tomorrow? I should make sure I’ve slept at least a little bit, probably the best idea. Night, Yennefer.” He lies down on the hard stone floor, curls up facing away from the sorceress with the violet eyes and the dimeritium collar around her neck – and he knows he’s acting like a fool, knows that now is _really_ not the time to be pining after Geralt of fucking Rivia _again_ , but it’s been a long day, okay, and he’s _scared_. 

He’s scared of a lot of things. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and tries not to think about the warmth of Geralt’s body, curled around him in a narrow bed in a nameless inn, constant and comforting and, he always thought, a promise of everything still to come. Instead, he listens to the sounds of Yennefer’s movements for a while, the rustle of her skirts against the bars, the sigh of her breath – and to his surprise it’s oddly soothing. It lulls him into drowsiness, eventually, and when he falls asleep, he dreams of the view from the eastern curtain wall at Kaer Morhen, the lochs and the glens and the sky, stark and beautiful in the morning sunlight.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier is kicked awake what feels like only a few minutes after he dozed off. He groans, curls tightly into himself tight in an attempt to escape the blows – but then there are hands grabbing at his arms and his shoulders, hauling him upright, and he’s forced into alertness. 

“Morning, your lordship!” the same bearded man says, mockingly bright, and Jaskier fleetingly wonders why _he_ doesn’t look as tired as he feels. “Afraid you’ve got an appointment this morning, so no time to sleep in.” He bends down, unlocks the manacle around Jaskier’s ankle with one of a large bunch of keys—there aren’t any that look like they’d fit the delicate collar around Yennefer’s neck, unfortunately—but then there’s a set of slimmer cuffs being fixed around his wrists to compensate. 

Jaskier clears his throat, darts a quick glance over to Yennefer. She’s on her feet, shoulders tight, gaze blazing with a peculiar blend of concern and anger that Jaskier has only ever seen directed at Geralt before. He doesn’t have time to figure out how that makes him feel. “And who exactly is my appointment with?” he asks, dragging him attention back to his bearded captor. “I wouldn’t want to leave anyone wanting, would I?” 

The bearded man just laughs, then hands the bunch of keys back to one of his underlings. “Take him,” he says to the guards, and all of a sudden Jaskier’s being bodily dragged out of his cell, heels scraping along the stone of the corridor, chained and helpless and being taken to gods know where to do gods know what. 

Fear closes around his throat, tight and ice-cold. 

“Where are you taking him?” Yennefer snaps, and he hears her smack her hand against the bars of her cell. “ _Answer me!_ ” she demands with all the imperiousness of a sorceress who’s forgotten what it’s like to be without her powers – but it doesn’t help, because no one answers and Jaskier just keeps getting dragged to his death. 

Gods, he fucking hopes he’s not being dragged to his death. 

“Alright, alright,” he protests as the door to the cells is slammed behind them. “I can walk, you don’t have to _carry_ me.” He pulls away from the rough hands of the guards, steadies himself as best he can, shakes out the creaks in his arms and takes this briefest of opportunities to take a calming breath. It doesn’t exactly work, but it’s reassuring nonetheless. “Okay then,” he says to his bearded captor, flashes him as sunny a smile as he can manage. “Where are we going?”

The bearded man snorts. “You’re not like our usual prisoners,” he says, leading the way down a surprisingly brightly-lit corridor. “They’re usually more likely to shit themselves than offer their co-operation.” 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Jaskier says. “I’m not happy about this whole being-kidnapped situation. But you all seem like reasonable people.” He thinks about the chains and the piss-bucket. “Moderately reasonable people. I see no reason why we can’t be civil.” 

The bearded man shakes his head. “I should take more members of the nobility captive,” he says, half to himself, and leads Jaskier up a long, winding staircase. Jaskier follows as meekly as he can bring himself to, but he’s still acutely aware of the two beefy soldiers at his back, armed and dangerous and more than capable of snapping him like a twig if they wanted to. Shit, he probably should have taken Eskel up on those fencing lessons over the winter – but, well, he figured he’d be with Geralt, wouldn’t he? That there was nothing in the world that could separate them? 

Nothing in the world except a burning building and the desperate, unspoken knowledge that Ciri has to be _safe_. 

“The witch seemed upset to see you go,” the bearded man says offhandedly, so casual that Jaskier almost believes it’s just a conversation starter. “Surprising, that was, given she’s a stone-cold bitch who murdered a dozen of my men.” 

“Oh, Yennefer just wants someone to talk to,” Jaskier says lightly, trippingly, making a show of staring avidly at the trappings of the admittedly fairly nicely appointed castle. “I imagine she doesn’t want me to wind up dead too quickly – at least not before she’s had a chance to kill me herself.” 

“You know her?” 

“We’ve met,” Jaskier says, and does his best to load his tone with all the acidic disdain he can manage. It’s harder than he thought it would be. “Mutual friends, that kind of thing. Not the first person I’d choose to be stuck in a torture dungeon with.” 

The bearded man chuckles, then stops in front of a gilded door. “I can imagine,” he says, surprisingly wry, then opens the door and gestures for Jaskier to go through. “After you, my lord.” 

It’s not a request. Jaskier does as he’s told. 

The room he walks into is large, sprawling, stone flags and stone walls and windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. Jaskier blinks for a moment, adjusting to even _more_ light, but before he can actually try to figure out where in the damn continent they are, there’s a hand at his elbow and he’s being guided deeper into the room. There are two long tables running the length of the room, laden with all kinds of apparatus and machinery that Jaskier can only really label _magical bullshit_ , and that’s when he realises what this must be. 

Jaskier forces himself to breathe. 

A man and a woman are deep in conversation at the far end of the long, magical room, and Jaskier really doesn’t want to approach them but, well, the bearded man has his bicep in a deathgrip and it doesn’t look like he’s got much of a choice anymore. The pair that Jaskier is going to take a wild stab at and guess are the mages who captured Yennefer don’t even so much as acknowledge him – but the woman glances at his bearded captor, says, “Is this the bard?” 

The bearded man nods. “It is.” 

“Have you touched him?” the woman asks. 

“He’s been gagged,” the bearded man answers, almost deferentially. 

“And also tied up and kicked,” Jaskier chips in. “That was touching as well, I feel that should be taken into account.” 

The woman eyes him assessingly, and a not-entirely-unexpected chill runs down Jaskier’s spine. “He talks like a bard,” she says, and the man at her side laughs to himself, flicking through the pages of the slim book in his hands. “Don’t gag him again, Brannan. We can’t risk it. Understood?” 

The bearded man—Brannan, Jaskier files away—nods. “Of course,” he says. 

“But kicking me is fine?” Jaskier says, somewhere between offended and confused. 

The woman studies him again. “He has a point,” she says, then looks back to Brannan. “No physical violence from now on. We can’t risk it, not when we’re so close.” 

“So close to what?” Jaskier asks, but somehow isn’t surprised when he’s ignored.

“Get him in the chair,” the man says, flipping back to a specific page of his book and setting it down open on the table.

Jaskier tries to get a glimpse of whatever it is he’s so interested in but doesn’t have a chance before he’s being manhandled into a, well, chair, high-backed and uncomfortable – which isn’t that worrying, to be honest, until there are straps being snapped across his ankles and his forehead, immobilising him. “What the fuck,” he says, higher-pitched than he’d like, and then the chains around his wrists are being unshackled and his hands are pinned in place as well. He struggles to keep his breathing normal, flashes a grin up at the female mage who’s now standing over him, a clinical kind of interest in her expression. “I usually ask people to buy me a drink before they tie me down,” he says, trying to quell the panic. 

“The forceps, Alecsi,” she says, touching one fingertip to his lips. 

Jaskier’s never come across a pleasant scenario that involves forceps before. “What are you doing to me?” he asks, fainter, as the man—Alecsi, he’s assuming—takes one last look at the open book and then comes to join them, a set of shining silver forceps in his hand. 

“Brannan, open his mouth,” the woman orders. 

Brannan’s fingers are hard as a vice, and Jaskier fights, of course he does, his body flooded with pain, with fear, but those fingertips dig painfully at his jaw, wrenching his mouth wide open. He pants, eyes rolling, as Alecsi comes closer with those godsdamned silver forceps and, fuck, shit, they’re delving into his wrenched-open mouth and they’re _gripping his fucking tongue_. 

“There,” the woman says, rich and satisfied. “You’ve got a good grip?” 

“I have,” Alecsi answers. 

“Draw it out,” the woman commands, and Jaskier’s tongue is being pulled firmly but oddly _gently_ between his lips, not wrenched, not dragged, not ripped. He breathes through his nose, fighting against the panic that’s still thick and sticky in his mind, and ignores the drool that starts to gather at the corners of his mouth. “Perfect,” the woman says, staring at, of all things, his fucking _tongue_. “Hold him there.” She pauses for a moment, seemingly thinking, then she meets Jaskier’s gaze. “If Brannan releases your jaw, are you going to cooperate?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. 

Seeing as his tongue is currently immobilised by a set of silver forceps, Jaskier can only make an undignified squawk of protest in response.

“That’s what I thought,” the woman says. “You’ll have to keep holding him, Brannan. Can you do that?” 

“Of course,” Brannan answers, and he’s so close to Jaskier’s face that he can smell the sourness of his breath. 

“Excellent,” the woman says. She disappears for a moment, retreating to one of the tables, then reappears in short order with a – paintbrush in her hand? Yeah, it’s definitely a paintbrush, and there’s a small pot in her other hand that smells distinctly like something died in it. “This will taste extremely unpleasant,” she says, but of course she isn’t actually talking to Jaskier. “He’ll most likely try to spit it out, or buck away – but the sigil cannot be disrupted, do you understand? It has to be _perfect_.” 

Alecsi and Brannan make obedient noises, and the woman dips the paintbrush in the pot. “I’ll begin,” she says, and leans forward. 

Whatever’s on that paintbrush tastes absolutely _foul_ , like grave dirt and arsenic and dogshit all rolled together. Jaskier almost chokes at the first taste, gags after a couple of strokes of the tiny brush, but he can’t get away, can’t spit it out, can’t swallow it down. It sends sickness rocketing to his gut and his body starts doing what it’s programmed to do when he feels that ill. Bile starts building at the back of his throat, bitter and painful. 

“He’s going to vomit,” the woman says, almost idly. “Alecsi?” 

Alecsi murmurs a few words that Jaskier can’t quite make out, his hands still steady on the forceps, and Jaskier abruptly feels a tingle of magic down his gullet. The bile recedes, the urge to vomit fades – but there’s still that paintbrush, tickling against his tongue, spreading some concoction that tastes like death and shit across his tastebuds. 

Jaskier makes a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between disgust and horror. 

The woman pauses, forehead furrowed in concentration. “That’s it,” she says, a note of triumph in her voice. “Alecsi, take a look.” 

Alecsi peers keenly down at Jaskier’s outstretched tongue— _what the fuck is going on right now?!_ —and nods. “It looks perfect,” he says. “Excellent work, given how delicate an area you were given to work with. I was a little concerned that the outer runes might blur, but they seem to be holding well.” 

The woman hums, surprisingly musical, and returns the pot and paintbrush to the table. There’s drool spilling from the sides of Jaskier’s lips uncontrollably now, dripping down the torn front of his doublet, puddling on his immobile thighs, and under different circumstances he would definitely be concerned about the effect this whole debacle is going to have on his reputation. Now, though, there’s a jailer and two insane mages who are apparently _far_ too interested in, what, painting runes on his tongue? It’s all very fucked up. 

“And now,” the woman says, “the finishing touch.” 

She reaches out, presses the tip of her finger to the painted flat of Jaskier’s tongue, and says something long and complicated in a language Jaskier doesn’t understand. 

Pain flashes bright and brilliant across his tongue, startling, staggering, _searing_.

Jaskier cries out, bucks up against the bonds and hands holding him in place as much as he can, but the woman is speaking over his shouts of pain, strict and firm. “ _Hold him_ , Brannan,” she’s saying. “I’m sure you can manage one _bard_.” She peers down at Jaskier, seems to approve of what she sees, then there’s a small vial in her hand that she’s uncorking with a thumb and, hey, that almost smells like one of Geralt’s potions. Which, Jaskier abruptly realises, probably isn’t a good thing – because ninety-nine percent of Geralt’s bloody potions are absolutely lethal to humans. “Drink up,” the woman says, tipping the contents of the vial into Jaskier’s mouth—it’s _sweet_ , sickly sweet and cloying—and then Alecsi is releasing his tongue and Brannan is forcing his jaw shut.

Jaskier just sits there, breaths heaving through his nose, so-sweet potion sitting in his mouth, swirling around the echo of the pain that still creeps across his tongue. 

“Swallow,” the female mage says mildly. 

Jaskier makes a noise of refusal. He never did know when to shut up. 

The woman sighs, reaches out, and pinches his nostrils closed. “Swallow,” she repeats, not unkindly. “Or you’ll just pass out, and then your body’s natural instincts will take over and you’ll swallow anyway.” 

Jaskier’s vision starts to fuzz at the edges, and he does his best to swear vociferously at the top of his lungs. It’s somewhat hampered, of course, by the fact he can’t speak. 

The woman’s lips quirk in a smile. “Stubborn little bastard, aren’t you?” she says. “You were a good choice.” 

_A good choice for_ what _?_

Jaskier swallows, in the end, when his lungs are starting to cramp and twist in his chest. He’s released almost immediately and for a moment all he can do is haul heaving breaths into his chest, so fast he’s practically panting. The pain in his tongue is all-but faded, now, and there’s a pleasant blurring in his head that doesn’t seem to be getting better as he reoxygenates himself, no, if anything it seems to be getting… worse? 

That sweetness, lingering at the back of his tongue. Ah, shit. 

Drugged and terrified, Jaskier’s eyes roll back in his head. He passes out. 

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Eskel says, dropping himself into a seat at their table. 

Geralt fights the urge to growl and shoves his spoon into the bowl of porridge the innkeeper warily provided him. He’s about to tell Eskel to just fucking get on with it when Ciri interrupts. “Good news first,” she says, licking a dash of honey off the back of her own spoon, then gives Geralt a stern look when he starts to say something. “ _Good news_.”

“The good news,” Eskel says, leaning closer, dropping his voice, “is that I’m pretty sure Nilfgaard isn’t in the picture.” 

It’s not what Geralt was expecting. He also wasn’t expecting the veritable tsunami of relief that crashes over his shoulders, and it throws him so much that his spoon slips out of his fingers. “How do you know?” he asks, his voice guttural, hoarse. 

“Spoke to the wife of one of the boatmen,” Eskel answers, running a hand through his hair. “Brave girl, as it turns out – she was the only one who kept talking to me after I mentioned those fuckers wearing the rose livery. Unfortunately she’s also not originally from the area, so—and this is the bad news, I’m afraid—she couldn’t tell me exactly _who_ we’re dealing with.” 

“What did she tell you?” Geralt asks. 

“They’re the footsoldiers of some local bigwig,” Eskel answers, a furrow creasing his forehead. “Not nobility, as far as she could tell me – some kind of businessman, I think. A merchant, something like that. New money. Rumours say that he bought some crumbling castle and renovated it, set himself up like a little king.” 

“So that’s who’s captured Yennefer and Jaskier?” Ciri says, her voice high and thin. 

Geralt hasn’t quite managed to school himself into not flinching whenever the words _Jaskier_ and _captured_ are mentioned in the same sentence. “Did you get a name?” he asks, practically staring Eskel down. “A location?” 

Eskel grimaces. “Nessa didn’t know for sure,” he says, “and, given how badly a lot of the others reacted to my questions, I didn’t feel comfortable getting her to ask around.” 

Geralt frowns. “How badly is badly?” Eskel turns his head to the side by way of an answer, taps his finger against a heady bruise on his jaw that wasn’t there last night. It’s yellowing already, mostly on its way to healing, but Geralt’s eyebrows jump nonetheless. “That’s a solid hit,” he says. “Getting slow, Eskel?” 

Eskel sighs. “We were getting on pretty well up to the point that he hit me,” he says ruefully. “But apparently Mr Harrisworth the butcher doesn’t like being asked questions about certain customers of his. Which I wish he’d told me _before_ I had to lay him out on the floor of his shop.” He grimaces. “Not going to expose some poor human woman to that.” 

“So we don’t know where they are,” Geralt says, his stomach twisting. 

Eskel’s bruised jaw is tight. “We’ve got a place to start,” he counters, gentle, level. “This castle is out to the west, apparently – which makes sense, because that’s the way those soldier bastards went. And, from what you said, that’s the direction you came from, as well. So that’s where you last… saw Jaskier.” Geralt doesn’t miss the hesitation there, and his jaw spasms tight. “That number of people? We can track them easily. The roads will be beaten to shit, so even if everyone’s too scared to talk to us, they should be leaving a pretty obvious trail.” He looks between them. “So finish your breakfast, and we’ll get on the road.” 

There’s a part of Geralt that wants to just snarl _fuck this_ and get out of this shitty town right now, but he knows that Ciri needs to eat and she’s much more likely to do so if he’s eating, too. “Fuck,” he growls quietly, then proceeds to start shovelling porridge into his mouth with alacrity.

Ciri doesn’t move. “It’s not Nilfgaard,” she says, so softly even Geralt barely hears. 

Eskel’s expression softens. “It doesn’t look like it,” he says, reaching across the table and lightly squeezing her wrist. “So eat up, yeah? Then go grab yours and Geralt’s stuff from the room. We need to get going as quickly as we can.” 

Ciri nods, and turns her attention to wolfing down her bowl of porridge almost quicker than Geralt thought was humanly possible. She doesn’t wait for orders when she’s done, just shoves the bowl into Eskel’s hands and disappears upstairs, forehead furrowed, lips pressed tight together, determined and fervent.

Eskel meets Geralt’s gaze. His eyes are troubled. “But if it’s not Nilfgaard,” he says, softer, softer, “if it is this local new-made man who’s taken them…” He trails off.

Geralt sets his spoon down. “Then we don’t know why,” he completes heavily. 

Eskel nods. “If it was Nilfgaard, we’d know what we were up against,” he says quietly. “We’d know what they wanted, and we’d be able to use that to our advantage. They wouldn’t kill them, Geralt, because they’d need them – for information, for blackmail, for leverage, whatever. But if it’s just some crazy human? We’ve got no idea what we’re walking into, Geralt – especially when we can be pretty sure he’s got at least two mages working for him.” He holds Geralt’s gaze a moment longer. “I don’t want to say this,” he starts. 

“Then don’t,” Geralt bites off.

Eskel gives him a sharp look. “We both know what humans are capable of,” he says, his voice dropping so quiet that only a witcher could hear. “We’ve both seen the cruelty they can inflict on each other. And I’m not saying that that’s what happening here, that the fucker that’s taken them has done it just because he gets off on inflicting _pain_ – but it’s a strong possibility, Geralt. You’ve come across just as many rich bastards as I have. ” He pauses, and in the quiet the only thing Geralt can hear is the thumping of his own heart. “There might not be much left when we get there,” he says, and the only thing that’s stopping Geralt from hauling him across the table and punching him until he shuts the fuck up is the fact that he can hear the pain in his voice, too. 

Jaskier, bloody and broken, glassy-eyed under the night sky. It’s a nightmare that Geralt has had far too many times before, and he’s abruptly very glad that Eskel waited until Ciri was gone to have this particular conversation. “We can’t let that happen,” he says, as controlled as he can manage. “I won’t let that happen.” 

“And I’ll do everything in my fucking power to help you,” Eskel says, anger boiling in his eyes. “You know I will. But I’m your friend, Geralt, and I need you to be prepared for the worst. You’ve got the girl to protect – and, no offence, but I saw what happened the last time you got it into your thick skull that you’d lost Jaskier.” He pauses, and a muscle spasms in his jaw. “And that was just when you thought he was fucking Lambert instead of you. Not sure I want to think about what you’d do if he was dead.” 

Geralt forces himself not to flinch. “First, we find where they’ve been taken,” he says. “Then we’ll see what needs to be done.” 

Eskel nods, but is prevented from saying anything more by Ciri coming pattering back down into the common area, their bags slung over her narrow shoulders. Geralt finishes his porridge in a couple of mouthfuls and they’re out of the door, going to the stables. Geralt saddles Roach with quick, efficient movements, focusing on that, not on the bitter taste of fear on the back of his tongue, _definitely_ not on the bulky, inconvenient shape of Jaskier’s lute, tied safe and secure to Roach’s back. Ciri mounts first, her mouth set in a hard line, and Geralt swings up behind her, meets Eskel’s gaze. 

“Good to go?” Eskel asks. 

Geralt just hums, and snaps Roach’s reins. 

They don’t ride quite as hard as Geralt and Ciri did on the way to Berrygrove, don’t kick up floods of dust behind them, but the pace is punishing nonetheless. Roach is drenched in sweat by the time the sun is high in the sky, breathing hard and flicking her ears, so Geralt reins her back from a gallop to a brisk trot, fighting the urge to just kick his heels into her flanks and spur her onwards. Eskel slows to join them, and after a while he suggests that Ciri ride with him for a while, give Roach a break. “After all,” he says, his smile bitter, “Llwyd carried me and Jaskier for long enough. I don’t imagine Ciri’ll bother him much.” 

Ciri doesn’t object, and Geralt can tell by the new prance in her steps that Roach is glad of the respite. 

It’s not exactly difficult to pick up the trail of the troops who took Yennefer. The grass around the path is crushed and flat, the clear story of men walking in a well-drilled martial column, which isn’t surprising, given what Eskel saw in Berrygrove, but it doesn’t exactly settle the germ of fear in Geralt’s heart. It’s not the soldiers of Nilfgaard, sure, but that’s not necessarily a good thing – he’s known plenty of private military forces that are, frankly, better trained and better motivated than a national army, made up of conscripts and kids on compulsory military service. A private, maybe mercenary force, maintained by a man who’s apparently wealthy enough to rebuild a whole fucking castle by himself? It’s not a good sign.

Geralt catches Eskel watching him, expression unreadable. 

He looks away and spurs Roach onwards. 

The last time he saw Yennefer, it was just before winter set in tight. She stood at the door of that little cottage in the woods, wrapped in a mottled white fur coat, and watched as Geralt readied Roach for the trek to Kaer Morhen, something in her expression that wasn’t pain and anger, no, not anymore. They spent long evenings talking in that cottage, letting the words slide from hurtful and bitter to familiar and comfortable, tinged with a quiet kind of melancholy that was somehow even sweeter than the fiery, destructive passion that used to blaze between them every time they met. To tell the truth, Geralt was looking forward to seeing her again – if only to see the surprise in her eyes when she saw Jaskier at his side.

They talked about Jaskier, too, on those cold autumn nights in a cottage in the woods, long after Ciri had gone to sleep. 

Geralt isn’t going to think about the last time he saw Jaskier. 

The sun is setting by the time that Geralt pulls Roach to a stop on the outskirts of the little burning town they barrelled out of what was really only a couple of days or so ago. Eskel and Ciri trot up only a minute or so behind him, and the three of them stand there frozen for a moment, watching the thick black smoke that still drifts up into the dimming springtime sky.

“Well,” Eskel says, then coughs sharply into his hand, his saliva speckled with black from all the ash in the air. “You weren’t exaggerating about the whole _burned to the ground_ part.” 

Geralt thinks that that’s a little strong. There are still a good number of buildings standing in the little town but they’re dwarfed by the number that have clearly been ravaged by the fire, little more than piles of broken timbers and scorched bricks. Geralt can see a handful of townsfolk picking their way through the wreckage, looking for whatever might be left of their ruined lives – and there are even more people who are just standing there, staring at the dust and the dirt, the soot and the ash. It’s a charnel house, really. Death and destruction. 

“Who would do this?” Ciri asks, low and tight, a note of incredulity in her voice. Geralt sees her press back against Eskel’s chest, sees his hand land comforting and steady on her hip – and then Eskel glances over at Geralt, concern thick in his expression. “ _All_ of this?” Ciri says, even tighter. “All these people?” 

“We don’t know, Ciri,” Eskel answers. “But maybe we can find someone in there who does.” 

Geralt leads the way into the ruined town, Roach picking her way along the ashy streets. Eskel stays close behind, Ciri held safe in his arms, and for a long while the only sound to be heard is the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves. People watch them go by with absent, vacant eyes, not angry, not bitter, just numb with devastation, with loss. This is a ghost town, now, the echo of so many other ruined towns Geralt has made his way through in his years travelling the continent – but this is different. He saw this town burn. He was _there_ , and all he did was run. 

Eskel lets out a low whistle. “Fuck,” he says under his breath, loud in the eerie twilight quiet. “Whatever bastard did this…” He trails off, doesn’t finish his sentence.

Geralt grits his teeth.

After a little while, Ciri stirs. “There,” she says, and Geralt glances back as she points. “Up ahead. That’s where we stayed.” 

She’s right: Geralt can see the remnants of the inn’s sign, smashed and fire-blackened on the cobble street. He nudges Roach towards the sign, towards the figure he can see rooting around in the wreckage on hands and knees – and he hears Eskel follow, but at a distance, keeping enough space between them that any trap won’t catch them both. Plus, it keeps Ciri out of range of anything that might be flung at him, knives, spit, vicious words. The figure resolves into a woman as Geralt gets closer, long hair hanging lank and dirty around her face. She looks up at the sound of Roach’s approach, an ugly burn marring one cheek – and, oh shit, it’s the woman who kept the bar, the woman who persuaded Jaskier to sing for her patrons, the woman who gave them free food with a cheery smile and an affectionate touch to Ciri’s shoulder. 

Her face crumples when she sees Geralt, and she hurls herself at him, grabbing at Roach’s bridle, wrapping her fingers around Geralt’s ankle. “ _Witcher_ ,” she gushes as Geralt’s hand instinctively flashes to his swords – and there’s no aggression in that voice, no threat. “Witcher, I didn’t know, I didn’t know he would do _this_.” 

Disquiet settles in Geralt’s gut. He draws his sword slowly, carefully, enough of a threat that it’ll cow her but not enough that she’ll run in panic. “Who?” he asks, teeth gritted, blood pounding in his veins. “I need a name.” 

“I just knew he wanted the bard,” the woman says faintly, her fingers flexing around Geralt’s ankle. “That was what his men told us: Jaskier, the bard, he’s always in this area this time of year, so when he turns up, get him to stay and there will be a _reward_.” Geralt stills, and behind him he smells a flood of adrenaline and sweat in Ciri’s scent. Anger and fear. The woman chokes a sob. “Business is slow, the war, the fucking war,” she mumbles. “I didn’t have a choice, but I didn’t _know_.” 

“You sold him,” Geralt says, rage building in his heart. “You _sold him_.” 

“Geralt,” Eskel says softly. 

Geralt swallows the wrath. “Give me a name,” he says flatly. “A name, and a location.” 

The woman’s face crumples even further. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t, he’ll kill me.” 

Geralt reaches down, fast as lightning, catches her wrist and hauls her arm above her head. He hears Ciri’s sharp inhalation, hears Eskel’s muttered curse, but he doesn’t give a shit because she fucking _sold Jaskier_ , sold him for a handful of coins and, what, to curry favour with some local celebrity? And yes, she’s been punished enough, she’s lost everything as a consequence – but she _gave him up_. “Not if I kill him first,” he says, tight and tense, and he just hopes that there’s enough violence in his eyes that she believes him. “Tell me.” 

The woman stares up at him, soot smeared across her forehead, tears in her eyes. “Aldebraan,” she whispers. “His name is Aldebraan. He lives on the shores of the lake, a few miles north of here.” There are teartracks down the dirt on her cheeks. “He killed us all, witcher,” she says, stronger, fainter. “Please, kill him for us.” 

Geralt drops her wrist, snarls. “Not for you,” he says. “I won’t do it for _you_.” 

The woman just stares up at him, slack and broken. It’s like she didn’t even hear him. “Please,” is all she says, low and quiet. “Please.” 

“Jaskier, can you hear me?” 

Jaskier feels vaguely like he’s floating. Everything’s hazy in his mind, soft and gentle, malleable, and he’s perfectly happy to keep drifting like this, dozing, curled up in his warm, fur-lined bed at Kaer Morhen, wrapped in the warmth of the fire and the keep and his witcher. 

“ _Bard_.” 

Although it’s actually quite cold, now that he’s thinking about it. And the softness in his mind definitely isn’t reflected in the bed that he’s lying on, no, it’s… solid, far too solid. It’s _stone_ , cold stone, and there’s an unfamiliar weight around his ankle. 

It all comes flooding back in a rush.

Jaskier drags his eyes open to the blankness of his cell, to the dimness of the flickering lights and the harsh chill of the stone at his back. He groans, bitter fear flooding back through his gut, and curls in on himself as much as he can, as much against the temperature as anything else. 

“Thank fuck,” Yennefer says, what sounds like genuine relief in her voice. “I was starting to think they’d poisoned you and dumped you in that cell to die slowly as an example to the rest of us.” 

Jaskier licks his lips, rasps, “Thanks for that.” 

“You’re welcome,” Yennefer answers, then pauses. “What happened?” 

Jaskier groans again, rolls himself onto his stomach, angles himself so he’s facing the front of his cell. It’s… _hard_ , surprisingly so. Every movement is like dragging himself through mud, thick and cloying. Even blinking feels more laborious than it should do. 

Yennefer’s frowning. “What did they do to you?” she asks, softer – and there it is again. Concern, real and honest. 

Jaskier blows out a long breath, fights the almost overwhelming urge to close his eyes. “Drugs,” he says, and much to his surprise discovers that the lethargy doesn’t seem to extend to his speech. “They drugged me,” he tries again. “Tasted sweet. Knocked me out pretty quick.” He sighs, blinks laboriously. “I can still feel it. I _really_ want to just go to sleep.”

“Try to stay awake,” Yennefer says, firm enough that it isn’t a request. “Can you sit up?” 

Jaskier thinks about the question for a minute. “Don’t think so.” 

“Okay, stay there,” Yennefer answers. She’s settled at the front of her own cell, one hand curled around the bars, the other resting carefully in her lap. The dimeritium collar gleams dully in the light from the torches. “What did you see?” she asks. “Do you know where are we?” 

Jaskier tries and fails to shake his head. _Fuck_ , he hates being drugged. “Just some castle,” he says. “Didn’t see much. Our lovely, friendly guards took me to two mages, one man, one woman.” He catches Yennefer’s gaze. “Guessing they’re the ones who took you?” 

“I imagine so,” Yennefer answers, then frowns. “What did they want with you?” 

Jaskier laughs. “That’s nice.” 

Yennefer rolls her eyes, which is so surprisingly normal that it actually makes Jaskier—drugged, imprisoned, terrified—feel oddly better. “Tell me what happened,” she says, enunciating every word like he’s a child who doesn’t understand words very well. “Everything you can remember. Maybe it will help us figure out what exactly is going on here.” 

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Jaskier says, resting his cheek against the cold stone under him. “They like tongues.”

Yennefer blinks. “Tongues?” 

“Tongues.” 

Yennefer just stares at him for a second. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she asks flatly. 

“You’re not being very sympathetic to the fact that I was just dragged away and abused by our mysterious captors,” Jaskier says loftily. 

“ _Bard_.” 

“ _Sorceress_.” 

Yennefer studies him for a long moment, and something in her expression softens. Jaskier flinches at that look in her eyes – because he _knows_ he’s being unhelpful, of course he does, he’s being unhelpful because he has no fucking clue what’s going on and, frankly, he doesn’t want to know. Denial is a wonderful thing, but Yennefer’s just looking at him with those bloody solemn eyes. “Jaskier, you need to talk to me,” she says. 

“I need to not be in a fucking cell,” Jaskier snaps back. 

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier grits his teeth. He knows she’s right. “They strapped me down in a chair,” he says quietly. “Then the lady mage grabbed my tongue, painted something on it with some kind of concoction that tasted like fucking _death_.” He remembers the pain, searingly hot. “Then I think she maybe burned it?” he asks, frowning. “I don’t know exactly, I’m not magic like you. And then she forced me to drink that fucking potion and I passed out. And woke up back here.” 

Yennefer frowns. “They painted something on your tongue?” 

“They did.” 

“Is it still there?” Yennefer asks, and there’s a note in her voice that Jaskier really doesn’t like. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I can’t see.” 

“Show me.” 

“What, do you just want me to stick my tongue out at you?” 

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “I would have thought you would enjoy that.” 

“It feels a little childish.”

“Show me,” Yennefer says again. 

Jaskier takes a breath, and shows her. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Maybe interest, maybe confusion, maybe more jokes – in a pinch, maybe more of that concern, thick and cloying. He could live with the concern. What he doesn’t expect is fear, sparking across Yennefer’s features like lightning. 

Jaskier’s heartbeat kicks up a notch. “Witch?” he asks.

“I know why we’re here,” Yennefer says, choked in her throat. “ _Shit_. I know why we’re here.” 

Jaskier’s stomach twists. “Because of whatever’s on my _tongue_?” 

Yennefer meets his gaze, her violet eyes blazing bright and sharp in the firelight – and, fuck, there it is. She’s schooled her features back into their usual stunning mask, the kohl around her eyes smeared and old, her lips chapped, her hair full of the grease of however many days she’s been stuck down here – but there it is. She hides it well, but she’s _afraid_. 

That same fear settles heavy and sickly in Jaskier’s gut.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter gets a little dark at times. It's nothing too far beyond the realms of canon, but, you know, just be warned!

“It’s a spell,” Yennefer says.

“A spell?” Jaskier echoes, watching her as she gets to her feet. “What kind of spell?” 

“A bad one,” Yennefer answers shortly. She’s not looking at him anymore, no, she’s peering down the dim corridor. “A very bad one,” she says, which is all very ominous but not actually getting any closer to answering Jaskier’s question. “You can all hear me,” she says, projecting her voice with admirable control – and, oh, she’s talking to the other prisoners, isn’t she? “I’ve tried to talk to you before and you’ve ignored me – but I need you to listen to me now.” 

There’s no answer, not verbally at least, but Jaskier can see slight movement out of the corner of his eye in the cell next to Yennefer’s. “Yennefer,” he says, quieter. “What is it?” 

Yennefer doesn’t meet his gaze. “There are five of us,” she says sharply. “Myself and the bard, and then three of you. An elf, a young man whose voice has just broken, and woman in the final weeks of her pregnancy.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows jump. “How the _fuck_ do you know that?” he asks. 

There’s a stir of movement in the cell next to Yennefer’s. Jaskier’s head isn’t at quite the right angle for the full view and he’s still apparently so fucked up on whatever those drugs were that they tipped down his throat that moving is _hard_ – but he sees the prisoner approach the bars, and he’s not quite so fucked up that he can’t recognise the shape of a heavily pregnant woman. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he breathes. 

The woman’s hands are shaking and her eyes are bloodshot. She’s clearly been crying. “Can you tell me why I’m here?” she asks, one hand resting on her swollen belly. “Please, I just want to go home.” 

There’s the clinking of another chain from the cell next to Jaskier’s, the one he can’t see, and a quietly musical voice says, “What did you see on the bard’s tongue, sorceress?” 

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” a final voice with a heavy Redanian accent yells from further down the corridor – and, well, Jaskier recognises that particular combination of aggression and bravado. It’s the province of young men across the continent, and he’s heard it shouted in Geralt’s face more than enough over the years. “Who are you? Who are these bastards?” 

“Shit,” Jaskier says, and Yennefer finally looks back to him. He can’t see the fear anymore, no, she’s pushed it down so deep that it’s well hidden – but instead there’s a wildness in her violet eyes that, to be honest, just unsettles him even more. “Yennefer,” he says slowly, “I really don’t like how you’re looking right now. And I’ve seen you naked and trying to catch a djinn so, you know, I’ve seen you looking _rough_.” 

“It’s a spell,” Yennefer says, loud enough that her voice carries through the cells. 

“You’ve fucking _said that already!_ ” the Redanian shouts. 

Jaskier sees irritation twist Yennefer’s face, and it’s surprisingly reassuring. She might be scared, yes, but she’s still Yennefer of Vengerberg, that’s not going to change. “An old spell,” she says, smooth as silk. “Forbidden magic. I don’t know that it’s ever actually been attempted – let alone _succeeded_. It’s the kind of thing that they teach in history classes, as a lesson about how _not_ to practice magic.” 

“Forbidden spells don’t sound particularly _positive_ ,” Jaskier says, managing to muster enough energy to drag himself a little closer to the bars of his cell. 

“They’re not,” Yennefer answers. “But this one is… less positive than most.” 

“This spell,” the voice from the cell next to Jaskier’s says – he’s assuming from Yennefer’s list that that’s the elf. “What does it do?” 

Yennefer’s chin tilts higher. “It’s colloquially known as the god spell,” she says.

“That’s _definitely_ not a good thing,” Jaskier says, his heart twisting in his chest. 

“You cannot simply _make_ someone a god,” the elf says, derision in his voice. 

The look on Yennefer’s face is practically withering. “That’s why it’s a colloquial name,” she says flatly. “The true name in the books is the Bind of Five – or, in some versions…” She falters. Yennefer _falters_. “In some versions,” she says again, “the _Blood_ of Five.” 

A chill spiders through Jaskier’s chest. “Right,” he says. “Blood. That’s always a good sign.” 

“There are five of us here,” the pregnant woman says faintly. 

“Arguably,” the elf says in a tone of cold disinterest, “there are six of us, including your unborn child.” 

Jaskier sees the horror that flutters across the woman’s features. “My _baby_?” she asks, hysteria pricking higher in her voice. “Do they want my _baby_?” 

“No,” Yennefer says, flat and blank. “No, your baby will be safe.” She takes in a breath, low and trembling, and Yennefer isn’t exactly Jaskier’s best friend, no, not at all, but he’s heard enough from Geralt to know that children are a sore spot for her. Briefly, Jaskier thinks about Ciri. “The sigil on your tongue,” Yennefer says, meeting his gaze. “It’s a five-pointed star, with each point capped by a stylised ankh. There are five concentric circles within the star, and runes running between its point make a sixth. The runes are… some extremely old dialect of Elder, I think.” She shakes her head. “I probably couldn’t read them even if they weren’t currently tiny and burned into your tongue.” 

“Burned?” Jaskier echoes. 

“It’s the sigil of the Bind of Five,” Yennefer says, ignoring his question. 

“And why the fuck is it _burned onto my tongue_?” 

Yennefer’s jaw is tight. “Because your tongue, marked with that sigil, is the final ingredient in the spell.” 

Jaskier blinks. “My tongue is the what now?” 

Yennefer takes a slow breath – and given that Jaskier has seen her wrestle a djinn and fight a dragon without so much as breaking a sweat, this is… _concerning_. “The Bind of Five,” she says, “according to the magical treatises, grants immortality, invulnerability, power and influence, and eternal fame. That’s why it’s known as the god spell – because it grants a human, a _mortal_ , as much power as any god. They will never age, never die. They cannot be hurt by any weapon, by any spell. And every man, woman, and child across the continent will know their name – and will _fear_ them.” 

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Jaskier says. 

“But there is a cost,” Yennefer answers. “A cost in lives.” 

“The Blood of Five,” the elf murmurs.

“Fuck,” the Redanian mutters from down the corridor.

The pregnant woman blanches, and Jaskier feels like she should probably be sitting down right now. “ _Our_ lives?” she asks, hoarse and faint.

Yennefer’s gaze is steady on Jaskier, almost like she’s the only one he can bear to look at. “As far as I remember,” she says like she’s explaining it to a child, like she’s _teaching_ , “the spell is complex. There are a range of more normal magical ingredients, snake skin, wild honey, several herbs, I think – but then there are… others. Five others, to be precise.” She lets out a soft breath, lists them off rapidly. “The alveoli of an elf. The testicles of a young man whose voice has only just broken. The placenta of a woman in the eighth month of her pregnancy. The heart of a sorceress. And the tongue of a bard, branded with the sigil of the spell.” 

“That’s fucked up,” Jaskier says flatly, panic surging in his heart, at the same time as the elf says, “ _Alveoli_?” The pregnant woman just makes a sound that sounds vaguely like a wounded animal and, somewhat unexpectedly, the Redanian is deathly silent. 

Yennefer takes another steadying breath, and looks to the elf. “Yes, alveoli,” she says. “Frankly, it’s not the most elegant spell – the symbolism is rather heavy-handed. Alveoli represent the breath of life, the placenta and the testicles are stand-ins for regeneration and rebirth. The heart is a synecdoche for power—”

“And the tongue is fame,” Jaskier interrupts, sickness curdling in his stomach. “Because that’s what I do with my songs: I make people famous.” 

Yennefer’s gaze is surprisingly soft. “In your case, it was more a single person than people in general,” she says quietly, “but yes, that’s the power of a bard. And that’s why the sigil is burned onto the tongue, Jaskier. Because the tongue is the final ingredient – the bloody _capstone_. The tongue is what holds it all together – because what’s the point in immortality and influence if you’re not fucking _famous_?” 

Jaskier swallows, and now that he’s thinking about it he’s pretty sure he can feel the ridges of that fucking sigil on his tongue. “You said a cost in lives, Yennefer,” he says quietly. “Not that I’m a big fan of the idea, but I’m pretty sure I could lose my tongue and still live.” 

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself,” she says, her lips twitching in a ghost of a smile, but the attempt at levity dies as quickly as it begins. “The final stage of the spell requires the subject to bathe in the lifeblood of the five… sacrifices. It’s a symbolic rebirth. They wash away the death of their previous existence with the deaths of five other people.” 

“It is _monstrous_ ,” the elf says. 

Jaskier can see the pregnant woman press closer to the bars, fresh tears gleaming in her eyes. “You said my baby would live,” she says, surprisingly level. “How can he live if I’m dead?” 

A flinch darts across Yennefer’s expression. “Your baby will be cut out of your belly and raised as the child of the subject of the spell,” she says, and on some level Jaskier is mildly impressed by how calmly she manages to say something quite so horrific. “The child will live in comfort and luxury as an emblem of life from death.” 

“You’re right,” the elf says, flat and empty. “The symbolism _is_ heavy handed.” 

“How do you know so much about this fucking spell, witch?” the Redanian barks, and Jaskier can’t see him, has no idea what he looks like, but he knows that tone. Fear and anger. And ignorance, of course, but that’s par for the course. “Have you performed it? Is that how you sorceresses get your power – by _murdering humans_?” 

Yennefer breathes out, and Jaskier spares a minute from his crowded schedule of panicking to be faintly amused at the annoyance she’s clearly suppressing. “As I have already stated,” she says flatly, “the Bind of Five is held up among the sorceresses of Aretuza as a shining example of how _not_ to create a spell. It is clumsy, aggressive, and inelegant – not to mention sexist. There’s no need for it to be the heart of a sorceress, a sorcerer would work just as well. But a sorcer _ess_ is specified in all the extant records.” 

“It also demands the deaths of five innocents,” the elf points out, a little archly. 

“Yes,” Yennefer says, and there’s that fear again, buried so deep in her eyes that Jaskier almost thinks he’s imagined it. “Yes, it does.” 

Jaskier is going to very carefully ignore the fact that his hands are shaking. “So what you’re saying,” he says, “is that I’m going to have my tongue cut out and then my throat slit so that some arsehole can use some arcane, badly-written spell to become _immortal_?” 

Yennefer’s lips are pressed into a thin line. “It’s more likely that your tongue will be torn out by the root,” she says, “but yes, that’s the general idea.” 

“That is _not_ reassuring.” 

“I think it’s why they drugged you, too,” Yennefer says heavily. “The sigil can’t be damaged before the ritual, that would invalidate the whole spell.” 

“So they’ve drugged me?” Jaskier asks, a little disbelieving. “So that, what, I can’t cut my own _tongue_ in two?” 

“Are you saying that you wouldn’t?” Yennefer asks, quieter, her violet eyes heavy on him. “If you knew that it would save us all, would you really hesitate for a second?” 

Jaskier grits his teeth. “Fuck,” he says. “Would it save us, Yennefer? If I ruined this fucking thing that’s on my tongue?” 

“I don’t know,” Yennefer says. “It would mean that they couldn’t cast the spell.” She pauses, then adds, “But I don’t know if that would save us.” 

And isn’t _that_ a cheery thought. 

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” Jaskier says. 

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Yennefer asks, her tone icy. “I have no access to my magic. You can barely _move_ – and even if you could, what would you do? Break through those iron bars with your fists? Yes, that seems like it would be within your skillset as a witcher’s travelling bard.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, trying not to let all his hope and all his pain seep into those scant syllables. “Geralt will find us. He’ll get us out of here, Yennefer. You know he’d do anything in his power to keep you safe.” 

Something soft and almost sad darts through her gaze. “And you, too, Jaskier,” she says, and Jaskier feels a shudder race through his core at the sheer _tenderness_ in her voice. She stares at him a moment longer, but then clearly has the same thought as Jaskier—this is _not_ the time to be having this conversation—and her expression shifts, readjusts. “But even if that’s true,” she says, her jaw tight, “we can’t just wait for Geralt to swoop in like a white knight. The ritual that ends the Bind of Five, it has to take place at dawn on the vernal equinox.” Her lips twist. “More symbolism. Spring and the rising sun, _gods_.” 

Jaskier is starting to learn that when Yennefer’s nervous, she criticises the magical abilities of other people. “The vernal equinox,” he says slowly. “That’s in the next few days.” And then, because when he’s nervous, he babbles: “I’d be more accurate with my timings but, you know, I’ve been attacked, drugged, and held prisoner in a dungeon that has exactly zero natural light. It’s difficult to really keep track of the passage of time, you know? Although, well, what is time anyway…” 

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier swallows as much of his panic as he can. “Yeah.” He pauses, meets Yennefer’s gaze. “So what you’re saying,” he says slowly, “is that we have a few days. And then whoever’s running the show around here is going to give us the spectacularly generous gift of slow, painful deaths.” 

Yennefer just holds his gaze, and doesn’t answer.

It doesn’t take Geralt long to find Aldebraan’s lake. The main road leading north from that destroyed, nameless town goes straight there, winding through the lushness and greenery of the springtime Redanian countryside on the way. Geralt notices that it’s beautiful in an abstract sort of way, and he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that this is the sort of landscape Jaskier would just _luxuriate_ in, singing paeans to the peonies and ballads to the bluebells as he walked alongside Roach, chattering away about rhymes and metrics and tonality. Geralt would listen with half his attention, occasionally offering a word or a hum in response, but then the rest of him would be on the look out for danger, for risk, for bandits in the trees or monsters in the long grass. He’d be inattentive, yes, but for a good reason, and Jaskier would complain and jibe and smack his ankle – but he’d be _safe_. 

“That,” Eskel says, reining Llwyd in next to Geralt on the lake’s gently-lapping shore, still half-surrounded by blossoming apple trees, “is one _ugly_ castle.” 

The castle squats low and hulking on the lake’s eastern shore, no elegance in its lines, no refinement in its battlements. It’s heavily fortified, Geralt can tell even from this distance, and even if they _hadn’t_ seen the masses of troops that this Aldebraan apparently has at his disposal, Geralt would have to think twice about trying to get in there. There’s only three of them, for fuck’s sake, two witchers and a half-trained Cintran princess – they can’t storm a bloody castle. 

But they have to.

Geralt breathes in, smells the freshness of the spring air, the trodden grass, the lakewater. In any other context, this would be idyllic. 

“So,” Eskel says. “What now?” 

Ciri shifts in the saddle in front of Geralt. “Can we break in?” she asks. “Go find them, rescue them?” 

Geralt would love to say yes. Geralt would love to just go bursting in there, swords in hand, snarling and monstrous and everything that humans like to think he is. “No,” he says, gritting his teeth. “We don’t know enough about what’s inside that castle – we can’t just attack.”

Eskel’s nodding. “Especially given that this Aldebraan’s soldiers managed to kidnap your sorceress,” he says. “Anyone that powerful poses a serious risk, a _serious_ risk.” 

“So what do we do?” Ciri asks. 

“Recon,” Geralt says shortly, his fingers flexing against his thigh. He glances up at the sky, midday bright overhead, and grimaces. “Not now, it’s too light. We’ll be seen. But tonight, when it’s dark. We’ll go in, find out how things stand.” 

But Eskel’s shaking his head, a frown creasing his forehead. “No,” he says. “No, not _we. I’ll_ go in.” 

Geralt stares at him. “Eskel—”

“Geralt,” Eskel interrupts, his tone brooking no arguments. “You nearly broke that woman’s arm, back at the town. And I’m not saying that she didn’t _deserve_ it, no, she sold Jaskier out and that is fucking unacceptable – but you nearly picked her up and ripped her arm off, Geralt. You’re not in control right now, and the last thing we need when we’re potentially going to have to go fight a godsdamned army is you fucking up and giving our position away in advance.” His gaze is harsh. “We’ll make camp in these woods, somewhere safe. At nightfall, I’ll head to the castle, see what’s to be seen. You and Ciri will stay here.” 

“ _Eskel_ ,” Ciri protests, but Eskel shakes his head.

“No arguments, princess,” he says. “This is how it has to be.” 

Geralt breathes carefully, gently, nose filled with the scent of apple blossom. “We’ll stay away from the castle,” he says, “but we’re not just going to sit at camp and twiddle our fucking thumbs, Eskel.” 

“Geralt—”

“We don’t know what this landscape is like,” Geralt interrupts. “These woods could be hiding anything, troop encampments, secondary fortifications. The castle itself is only part of the picture. We need to know about _everything_.” Eskel’s lips twitch, but Geralt knows it’s because he’s right. “We won’t engage,” he says, quieter. “We won’t make contact. But if we want to get them back safe, we need as much information as we can get.” 

“Shit,” Eskel bites. 

Geralt sort of wants to laugh at that. “Think of it as training for Ciri,” he says, more of a rumble in his chest. “She needs to know how to track and how to reconnoitre.” 

“Pretty strained circumstances for a fucking lesson,” Eskel says. 

“I can keep Geralt safe,” Ciri pipes up, determination fierce in her eyes. “I can stop him getting into trouble.” 

Eskel laughs. “I’m sure you can,” he says, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Okay, fine. But we do need to make camp first, get some rest. It’ll be a long night.” 

Geralt looks out across the lake, studies that castle, hulking and dark and ugly, sees the green hills and the blue water, the grey stone and the yellow sun. Jaskier’s in there somewhere, Jaskier and Yennefer both, and Geralt doesn’t know why they’ve been taken, doesn’t know what the fuck is going on here, but he knows that he has to do _something_. His heart is beating faster in his chest, his hands are tight on Roach’s reins, and all he fucking wants to do is go, is run, is attack and invade and _fight_ until he’s got his hands in Jaskier’s hair again, until he can hold him in his arms and never let him go again. 

“Geralt,” Eskel says, soft and knowing. 

Geralt turns away from the lake and follows Eskel into the trees. 

The door to the row of cells opens with a scream of unoiled hinges and the scrape of metal against stone. 

Jaskier’s still lying on his front on the floor of his cell, cheek pressed to the cold stone, but he’s drifting in and out of thin sleep, now, instead of keeping up a deeply terrifying conversation about rituals and spells and the fact that his tongue is now some kind of magical key or some bollocks like that. _That_ whole conversation died a death several hours ago, after the Redanian’s shouting and the pregnant woman’s tears and the elf’s biting, sarcastic comments, after Yennefer held his gaze and didn’t say anything, after he read the fear in her eyes as clear and sharp as day. 

Jaskier wouldn’t say that he’s _afraid_ , per se. He’s pretty sure that’s he’s too scared to be afraid anymore. 

“What now?” Yennefer mutters. She’s leaning against the wall next to the bars of her cell, head tilted back, collared throat long and bare, and Jaskier hasn’t missed that the position she’s chosen to sit in means that she’s as close to him as she can be. He’s pretty sure it’s not intentional – because, well, he’s not exactly going to be much help in this state, is he? 

Jaskier blinks, licks his lips, tries not to think about how he can feel the burned ridges on his tongue. “Maybe they’re coming to tell us all this has been a horrible mistake and it’s time to let us go?” he offers. 

“I’d say I admire your optimism,” Yennefer says, craning her neck to peer down the corridor, towards the sounds of boots and clanking chains, “except I really don’t think I do.” 

“Thanks, witch.” 

“You’re welcome, bard,” Yennefer says absently, getting to her feet – and all of a sudden there’s the clatter of a barred door opening and the Redanian is swearing, shouting, barking out his refusal. 

“What’s happening?” Jaskier bites out, trying and spectacularly failing to get his legs under him. “Yennefer, what’s _happening_?” 

The Redanian stops shouting, and his cell door slams shut again. A thrill of fear thrums through Jaskier’s chest, but then the rose-liveried soldiers are moving closer, close enough for him to see, and they’re opening the pregnant woman’s cell, going inside, holding her firm even as she whimpers and – making her drink? 

“What is that?” Jaskier snaps as aggressively as he can, given that he’s limp as a fish and even less dangerous. “What are you giving her?”

Predictably, the soldiers ignore him – but when they release the woman whose name Jaskier still doesn’t know—he should probably remedy that, but he knows if he does it will make this whole thing so much more _real_ —she doesn’t stagger, doesn’t collapse, doesn’t start burning up from the inside out. She coughs a little, yes, wipes her hand across her lips and pulls a pained face, but that’s it. 

“Hey,” Jaskier calls, meeting her gaze from his dignified position sprawled out across the floor. “Hey, are you okay? Did they hurt you?” 

She looks back at him, expression somehow more confused than terrified. “No,” she says softly, even as they’re locking the door of her cell and moving on to the elf. “No, it’s just… some kind of tonic, I think. Tastes awful.” 

Jaskier remembers the taste of the paint across his tongue. “Arsenic?” he asks. “And… well, shit?” 

She shakes her head, and Jaskier can see Yennefer watching whatever’s going on in the elf’s cell with fierce attentiveness. “No,” the pregnant woman says. “Like… salty mint?” 

“Salty mint?” Jaskier echoes, and then, because it seems appropriate: “The fuck…” 

The door to the elf’s cell slams shut, and Jaskier hears him cough. “Salt, mint, lavender, juniper,” he lists off, the coughs again. “Sage as well, I think.” 

“Purification,” Yennefer says, standing strong and firm even as the soldiers are unlocking the door to her cell. “It’s for purification, in advance of the ritual.” Four men barrel into her cell even as the rest stay outside, forcing her back against the far wall, and Jaskier bristles as much as he can at the violence in their hands, the knife to Yennefer’s throat, the roughness in their grasp as a bottle of clear liquid is tipped between her lips. She doesn’t struggle, doesn’t resist, just drinks whatever it is they give her – and, well, they _really_ should have been smart enough to realise that _that_ wasn’t going to go well, shouldn’t they? 

The hand around Yennefer’s right wrist loosens, just a little, and she moves, quick as a striking snake, grabs the hilt of the knife that’s pressed to her throat, turns it around on its owner, drives the blade through his eye even as she’s surging forward, grabbing for another soldier, another attacker. The bloody knife goes through the second man’s throat, spurting blood across Yennefer’s face, and she’s turning, dancing, swift and beautiful as Geralt ever is, going for the kill. 

The door to Jaskier’s cell crashes open and he’s being dragged up onto his knees by his hair. He cries out at the sudden burst of pain, then there’s a sword being pressed to _his_ throat – and, oh, the _amateurs_. Do they really think that _that’s_ going to stop her? 

“If you want the little lord to live,” a voice that Jaskier recognises as Brannan’s says, “you’ll put the knife down.” 

Yennefer looks up, three men dead and another on his knees in front of her, and her violet eyes flash sharp and bright. “If you kill him now, the spell cannot be completed,” she spits, blood dripping from the ends of her hair. “We both know you won’t do that. You’ve put far too much time and effort into this to fuck it all up now.” 

The sword presses closer, and Jaskier hisses as it lightly slices the skin of his throat. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says, and Jaskier feels a thin trickle of blood seep down his neck, soaking into the collar of his undershirt. “But are you willing to risk it?” 

“Yennefer, _get out of here_ ,” Jaskier rasps. 

Brannan hauls his head further back, and Jaskier sees something flash in Yennefer’s eyes. “What’s it going to be, witch?” Brannan asks, soft and silky. 

Yennefer’s expression twists, bitter and angry, and the knife falls from her grasp to clatter onto the floor. 

“ _Yennefer_ ,” Jaskier calls – but it’s too late, because soldiers are piling into her cell, four, five, six, pinning her down, crushing her beneath their weight, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the boots that drive into her ribs, her grunts of pain, the satisfaction in the voices of the arsehole soldiers. He twists as much as he can but whatever drugs they pumped him with keep him limp, languid, hanging from Brannan’s fist by his hair, and all he can do is choke out “ _Stop_ ” as the blows keep landing. 

“Boys,” Brannan says eventually, sounding almost bored. “Stop damaging the goods. She’s drunk the damn potion, and she’s not going to be acting out anymore, is she? Not now that she knows the consequences.” His hand twists tighter in Jaskier’s hair and his sword cuts ever so slightly deeper, sending a fresh thread of blood down Jaskier’s throat – and Jaskier doesn’t want to fucking whimper, he really doesn’t because, shit, Yennefer’s battered and bruised and covered in blood, he has no fucking _right_ to whimper from a hand in his hair and a blade at his throat. 

“Let him go,” Yennefer says, blood thick on her tongue. 

“Good girl,” Brannan says, then sheathes his sword, pats Jaskier firmly on his cheek. “Get those bodies out of her cell,” he says. “I’ll deal with the viscount.” And then there’s a vial at Jaskier’s lips, salt and mint and lavender, and he swallows it because he’s stunned and afraid and this is so fucked up, well, he knew it was fucked up, but he didn’t _know_. 

He drinks, and when he’s swallowed it down Brannan pats his cheek again, says, “Good _boy_ ,” and lowers him carefully back to the floor. 

The bodies are cleared out of Yennefer’s cell, a bucket of water is splashed over her and the blood, and then the soldiers are gone, as quickly as they came. 

Jaskier lies there for a long moment, just breathing. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says. “Are you okay?” 

Jaskier snorts, rolls his head as much as he can, angles himself so that he can see her. “I’m fine,” he says, voice strangled. “Are _you_ okay?” 

Yennefer’s face is a mottled mass of rapidly-developing bruises, blood smeared down her cheek from a cut below her eye, her lip split. “I’m fine,” she says, and Jaskier abruptly realises that that must be how _he_ sounds, choked, frantic, absolutely _not fine_. 

“You should have gone,” Jaskier says. “You could have fought your way out of here, Yennefer.” 

“He could have killed you,” Yennefer says. “And even if he didn’t, he could have hurt you.” 

“And?” 

“ _And?_ ” Yennefer echoes, outraged. “I’m not going to let some dickhead hopped-up on his own power slit your fucking throat, Jaskier, is that what you think of me?” 

“You could have _got out_.” 

“You could have died.”

“If this goes the way they want it to, I’m going to die anyway,” Jaskier snaps. “We’re _both_ going to die. You had a chance to get the fuck out of here, Yennefer, to save yourself, maybe save these other poor fuckers in here with us.” He pauses, breaths coming fast. “Next time, _take it_.” 

Yennefer’s expression is tight. “I’m pretty sure Geralt would have my head if I let you come to any harm,” she says softly, carefully. 

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says, his voice on the verge of breaking. 

“If we escape, we escape together,” Yennefer says flatly. “That’s not up for negotiation, bard. Understand? I will not leave you here.” 

Jaskier doesn’t have an answer for that. He’s silent for a long moment, then he licks his lips, slow and painful. “I’m beginning to think,” he says, his voice hoarse, “that I’m a in a little over my head here.” 

“It’ll be okay,” Yennefer says like she’s calming a child, like she’s gentling a horse. “Jaskier, it’ll be okay.” – except there it is, in her eyes, violet-bright and beautiful beyond measure. She can’t even bring herself to believe her own lie. 

Jaskier breathes, ragged and slow, and feels the blood slowly drying on his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s still early enough in the spring that the nights are cold, and Geralt’s breath gusts silvery on the air between the trees as they wait for the darkest part of the night. They don’t light a fire at their small camp, because they have no intention of being seen by whatever patrols this Aldebraan sets around his lands. Instead Geralt and Eskel keep Ciri bracketed between them, keeping her as warm as they can without flames and heat. She seems happy enough, after a while, and dozes off, her cheek pressed into Geralt’s shoulder, Eskel’s arm around her shoulders. Her soft snores whisper through the gathering dark, the moon barely peeking through the dense foliage overhead. 

Eskel laughs quietly, barely more than a breath. “She’s a noisy sleeper.” 

Geralt hums. “Try sharing a room with her and Jaskier both,” he says, just as quiet. “Not a moment’s peace.” 

Eskel snorts. “I can imagine,” he says. “He snored so loud one night on the way to Kaer Morhen that I couldn’t sleep _at all_. And then he had the nerve to complain that I was grouchy the next day.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Geralt rumbles. 

He can feel Eskel eyeing him through the gloom. “I imagine it does,” he says, thoughtful. There’s a pause, during while Geralt can practically _feel_ the question coming. “Are you going to be able to cope with this?” Eskel asks eventually. 

“With what?” 

“With what we may have to do to get them back,” Eskel asks, head cocked like he’s listening to something Geralt can’t hear. “And with what we might find when we do.” 

Geralt grits his teeth. “We’ve had this conversation already.” 

“That was before I saw you nearly break a woman’s arm,” Eskel observes. 

“Eskel.” 

“ _Geralt_.” 

Neither of them speaks for a long moment, and Ciri snores on between them, unheeding. 

“Say we find a way into that castle,” Eskel says quietly. “Say we go and stage a daring rescue. Say we find our way to the dungeons or the cells or wherever he’s being held.” His lips twist. “Say he’s not in the cells at all, Geralt. Say he’s got a collar around his neck and he’s chained to this Aldebraan fuck’s bed.” A chill runs through Geralt’s belly at that, slick and icy cold, and he growls deep in his throat, unbidden. “ _Exactly_ ,” Eskel says, a hair louder – and Ciri shifts between them, her forehead furrowing in sleep. They’re both silent for a long moment, waiting for her to settle, then Eskel says, whisper-soft, “You react like that at the fucking _suggestion_ , Geralt. At the _hint_. If I’m in a fucking deathtrap of a castle with you, fighting however many godsdamned soldiers this guy has to throw at us, then I need to know that you’ve got my back – and that you’re _not_ going to go full-on berserker and drop all of us in the shit.” 

Geralt breathes through his nose, sharp, painful. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, voice tight. “I can’t promise you that I won’t, Eskel. I can’t promise you that.” 

Eskel studies him a moment longer, then sighs. “There’s two people who need rescuing,” he says eventually. “Your bard, and your sorceress.” 

“She’s not _my_ sorceress.” 

“She pretty much is.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “Pretty sure she’d have my balls if I said she was mine.” 

“Pretty sure Jaskier wasn’t exactly fond of that word, either.” 

“What’s your point, Eskel?” Geralt says sharply, trying not to remember the raw anger in Jaskier’s face that night at the eastern curtain wall of Kaer Morhen, trying not to remember the uncontrollable, instinctual pain that surged in his heart at the _smell_ , Jaskier’s smell, all over Eskel – and then, of course, Lambert’s smell, all over Jaskier. Not his finest hour. 

“Less a point, more a suggestion,” Eskel says quietly, his fingers dancing absently through Ciri’s hair. “Two people need rescuing. There are two witchers going in to rescue them.” He pauses, and Geralt listens to the rustle of the trees overhead. “My _suggestion_ ,” Eskel says, “is that you go after the sorceress, and I go after the bard.” 

“Eskel—”

“With any luck, they’ll be together so that won’t be a decision you’ll have to make,” Eskel speaks over him. “And who knows, maybe before the night is out we’ll know exactly where they are and this will be a pointless conversation that we never needed to have. We can only hope.” His eyes are bright in the darkness. “But me and Ciri, Geralt, we need you to be in control of yourself. And I honestly think the best way for you to do that is for you to stay away from Jaskier until we can be sure that he’s okay.”

Geralt turns as much as he can without disturbing Ciri’s sleep, stares at Eskel, disbelieving, shocked. “You want me to stay away from him?” he asks. 

“I want you to trust me,” Eskel answers flatly. “I want you to trust me _with him_.” 

Geralt remembers those first few moments in Kaer Morhen, Ciri’s hand in his, bags heavy on his shoulders. He was tired from the climb, tired from the fear, tired from the strain, and in that moment that he saw Jaskier across the training ground, the moment that he felt his heart twist and swell in his chest, in that same moment all he could smell was Jaskier, wrapped tight and perfectly balanced with Eskel. 

“It’s the safest way,” Eskel says. “You know it is.” He pauses, and his hand skates over the loose, flyaway strands of Ciri’s hair. “She’ll need you, too,” he says. “And I _know_ you’re not going to let her out of your sight, whatever happens. You can’t be watching out for them both at the same time, Geralt. So let me help.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer, but Eskel knows him well enough to know that his silence is answer enough. 

“I should get going,” Eskel says after a moment, carefully disentangling himself from Ciri and getting to his feet. He leaves his horse, leaves his pack, just secures his swords to his back and looks away through the trees, looks towards that ugly, hulking castle on the other side of the lake. “I’ll be back before dawn,” he says, then looks back to Geralt. “You really going to take her with you to scout the area?” 

“Like you said,” Geralt says. “I’m not going to let her out of my sight.” 

A faint smile curls Eskel’s lips. “Of course,” he says, and adjusts the lay of his swordbelt across his chest. “Stay safe.” 

Geralt nods. “You, too.” 

Eskel takes off through the trees, running as only a witcher can, swift and silent and barely more than a whisper of the wind. 

Geralt lets Ciri sleep a little longer, then gently shakes her awake. “It’s time,” is all he says, and she’s spent enough time in the life of a witcher by now that she just nods, rubs the sleep from her eyes, and stands up. 

“Eskel?” she asks after a moment, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself, squinting into the darkness that the moon has barely touched. 

“Gone to the castle,” Geralt answers. “He’ll meet us back here.” He shrugs his own swords onto his back, pats Roach’s flank. “Stay close by,” he says, looking down at Ciri’s pale face, shining in the moonlight like a silver coin. “We need to cover a lot of ground.” 

“What are we looking for?” Ciri asks. 

Despite the situation, Geralt finds himself smiling, just a little. “We’re not looking _for_ anything,” he corrects. “It’s best not to think like that, because then you risk overthinking what you find. We’re scouting out the land, to see where the weak points are, areas of danger, risks.” 

“So we’re looking for danger?” 

“Not in the way that you think,” Geralt says. “Come. I’ll show you.” 

The moon tracks slowly through the night sky as they prowl the lands around the lake. They don’t come across much, a few well-worn tracks through the trees that lead to small farms and storage depots, the two-day-old burned-out ashes of a fire that Geralt is pretty sure belonged to poachers, but Ciri soaks it all up like a sponge anyway, her vivid green eyes glinting in the starlight whenever there’s enough of a gap in the trees to allow it. It doesn’t settle Geralt, exactly, doesn’t calm him, but her quiet attention gives him enough of a distraction that he doesn’t need to think about Jaskier, doesn’t need to think about him scared and trapped and in pain, waiting for Geralt to get him out. 

The night passes in the soft tread of Ciri’s footsteps and the rustle of the spring breeze through the branches overhead.

It’s a little before dawn and they’re making one final pass back around the woods when Geralt hears it. He pauses, a warning hand on Ciri’s shoulder, and cocks his head. There, through the trees, he can hear voices, human voices, low enough that they’re no danger but loud enough that they clearly don’t expect to be interrupted. 

“Geralt?” Ciri breathes. 

Geralt presses a finger to his lips, then leads them carefully, _carefully_ towards the voices. They’ve come across a couple of patrols tonight, bored soldiers in rose-embroidered livery, lounging against treestumps and sharing an illicit flask of something that smelled like aniseed and raw alcohol, but something tells Geralt that this isn’t that, isn’t the rank and file on the night shift. It’s something different. 

There’s a clearing in the trees, twelve, maybe thirteen metres across, lit by flickering torches. Geralt covers one eye against the brightness, preserving as much of his night vision as he can, and is faintly satisfied when he glances back at Ciri to find her doing the same thing. He turns his attention back to the clearing, counts maybe a dozen soldiers arrayed around the edge of the clearing, swords at their belts and in their hands – but that’s not all.

A shiver runs up Geralt’s spine that isn’t because of the cold. 

“A mage,” Ciri breathes at his side, barely louder than the wind. 

There’s a man standing in the centre of the clearing, a man with that peculiar kind of agelessly-beautiful face that all mages have, a man with a book in one hand and a block of chalk in the other. Geralt watches for a moment, frowning, as he bends down, etches something into the dirt under his feet with the chalk, then says something to himself under his breath that even Geralt can’t catch. They’re not at the right angle for him to be able to make out whatever it is the mage is etching into the dirt in any detail, but Geralt thinks it might be some kind of ritual star. 

Something twists in his gut, and he carefully shepherds Ciri away from the firelight, back into the darkness of the woods. 

“What was that?” she asks when they’re far enough away, cloaked in the pre-dawn gloom. 

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t know.” 

“That must have been one of the mages who took Yennefer,” Ciri says, her voice rising higher in the quiet. Geralt shushes her with a frown, leads them onwards, and she lowers the volume but doesn’t stop speaking. She’s clearly been spending too much time with Jaskier. “It was, wasn’t it? It _must_ be. So why don’t we go back, capture him? He can tell us what we need to know!”

“That’s not the point of reconnaissance,” Geralt says softly. “Tonight isn’t about action, Ciri. It’s about information.” 

“ _Information?_ ” Ciri scoffs.

Geralt isn’t sure if the warmth in his chest is annoyance or pride. “All the books that Vesemir had you read at Kaer Morhen,” he says. “All the creatures he had you learn by heart, all the geography that he had you recite. Information is the difference between staying alive and staying dead.” 

Ciri is quiet for a moment. “I want to _do_ something,” she says, her voice surprisingly firm as she follows Geralt through the darkened woods. Sometimes he forgets where she grew up, who her family is. “I want to help. I don’t just want to follow you and Eskel around, I want to _help_.” She pauses, and her voice wavers, just a little. “I love them, too.” 

Geralt grits his teeth. “Eskel will be back soon,” he says. “He’ll be able to tell us more.”

Ciri doesn’t speak the rest of the way back to their camp. That’s okay, though, because the clamour of Geralt’s thoughts is loud enough for both of them. 

Eskel’s waiting for them back at the camp, one of Llwyd’s saddlebags open on the ground next to him and a chunk of half-stale bread in his hand. He raises a hand in greeting when they come padding back through the trees, chewing on a stubborn mouthful – and when they get closer, Geralt catches a familiar bitter copper smell on the air, faint and almost hidden underneath Eskel’s usual smell of horse and sweat and witcher. He gives Eskel the brief once over, then catches his eye, frowns – and Eskel turns his arm almost infinitesimally, enough to show a splatter of blood on the inside of his shirt sleeve. 

“Did you find them?” Ciri asks, high and excited, and throws herself down on the ground next to him. 

“I found something,” Eskel says. “Sit down, the pair of you. Have something to eat.” He reaches into the saddlebag, passes Ciri another chunk of bread. “It’s not exactly fresh, but it’ll fill you up.” 

Geralt sits slowly, accepts the bread Eskel passes him. “What did you find out?” 

Eskel’s expression is light and amused, but Geralt can see the tiredness in the creases around his eyes. “Straight to business, then,” he says. “The castle’s heavily fortified and heavily guarded. No way we’re getting in there with only the two of us.” 

“Three,” Ciri interrupts. 

Eskel eyes her. “The three of us,” he corrects, halfway between amused and a little worried. “Anyway. There’s the usual little town you get around a castle like that, a few taverns, a brothel, that kind of thing. Spoke to some of the locals. This Aldebraan, bought a mine somewhere up north for pennies and hit a vein of gold that no one realised was there, then kept on going, made his fortune in ores and precious metals. He’s originally Redanian so he settled here, promptly went about building up his own private army and bribing every mayor and town council for a hundred miles around.” 

“How many men does he have?” Geralt asks. 

“Somewhere between a lot and a fuckload,” Eskel answers, then relents. “One of the tavernkeepers said five thousand, the brothel madam said ten. So we can safely assume it’s at least five hundred.” 

Geralt grunts. “Too many.” 

“Exactly.” Eskel pauses, just for a moment, chews another mouthful of bread. “I came across a soldier by himself in one of the taverns, got him talking. He was just a squaddie so he wasn’t exactly knowledgeable, but he was drunk enough that he was willing to talk to a stranger.” There’s a tightness in Eskel’s jaw in the rising light of dawn, a tightness that sits strange in Geralt’s gut. “There’s some odd stories going around that castle at the moment, Geralt. Some kind of ritual – and I didn’t even have to bring up prisoners, he volunteered that himself. Except he didn’t call them _prisoners_ , exactly.” He pauses, something angry in his eyes. “He called them _sacrifices_.” 

“The clearing, Geralt!” Ciri says, her eyes bright and wild. “The mage!” 

Eskel frowns. “What?” 

Geralt is going to seize the offered distraction and deliberately, determinedly _not think about the word sacrifice_. “There’s a clearing in the trees, maybe a mile or so west of here,” he says. “It was being guarded by soldiers from that castle and there was a mage marking patterns on the forest floor in chalk.” 

Eskel’s eyes flash. “Sounds ritually to me,” he says. 

Geralt hums. “Which gives us an opportunity,” he says – and there’s something warm curling in his gut, now, warm and relieved and _confident_ , because this, he can do. “If their ritual has to take place out here, then they’ll have to bring the prisoners outside the castle.” 

“They’ll be vulnerable out here,” Eskel says, nodding – but there’s a darkness in his voice that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge, a _wildness,_. “Shit. Geralt, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

“Is this something to do with the fact that you’ve got blood on your arm?” Geralt asks. 

Eskel’s jaw is set. “I was recognised,” he says tightly. “By some officer, I think. He had fancy epaulettes and he looked at me like I was dirt he scraped off his shoe, so I assume that he was an officer. Said he knew me from some contract I took a few years ago, although he couldn’t remember my damn name. He was drunk, he took a swing at me. I think he was just trying to act big in front of his cronies, to be honest, so I took it easy on him. But he wouldn’t leave well enough alone, so I ended up breaking his nose.”

“Shit,” Geralt says, flat and bitter. “So they know there’s a witcher in the area.” 

Eskel nods, jaw tight. “They may not put two and two together,” he says. “And this officer, whoever he was, might wake up with a raging hangover and regrets about having his arse handed to him by a mutant monster hunter, so he might not bring it up.” 

“That’s a lot of ‘might’s,” Geralt says. 

Eskel’s expression is solemn. “It is.” 

Ciri looks between them, breadcrumbs dusting her lap. “I thought you said that tonight wasn’t about action,” she says softly. 

“It wasn’t,” Geralt says, and cocks an eyebrow at Eskel. “And you were worried _I_ would lose control.” 

Eskel’s lips twitch. “Jaskier’s my friend, too,” is all he says. He looks down, tears off another chunk of bread. “But I did get one good thing out of the whole fucking disaster,” he says shortly, then meets Geralt’s gaze. “This ritual, this sacrifice, whatever the fuck it is. The squaddie, he said it’s due to be held tomorrow morning.” 

“Tomorrow morning?” Geralt echoes. 

Eskel nods. “The morning of the spring equinox,” he says. “At dawn.” 

Heat and flame curl in Geralt’s heart. “Tomorrow morning,” he says, and fights the urge to snarl. 

By morning, Jaskier has regained a little more control over his body. Not _much_ , exactly, he still can’t sit up – but he can roll his head to pretty much where he wants it to be, and he even manages to push hair out of his eyes once, which he feels is a big deal. He still has to be fed like an infant when the guards come around with bowls of some kind of porridge that actually doesn’t taste half bad, and he tries not to think about the blazing humiliation of having food spooned into his mouth by a middle-aged man who smells of leeks and lard. 

When the guards retreat again, leaving them to their own devices, Jaskier musters all he strength he has and rolls over onto his side, facing Yennefer’s cell. “Enjoy your breakfast?” he asks, aiming for jovial. 

Yennefer’s face is patterned in bruises, yellowing around the edges. “Delicious,” she deadpans, then eyes him assessingly. “You seem a lot more… mobile.” 

Jaskier wiggles his fingers at her. “Much,” he says. “Thanks for noticing.” He pauses. “How are the bruises?”

“Bruised,” Yennefer answers brusquely, and, well, Jaskier guesses that’s the end of _that_ conversation. She stares at him for a moment, forehead furrowed. “You were with Geralt when they found you.” 

“I was,” Jaskier answers. 

“He said he was going to find you,” Yennefer says thoughtfully. “After he left, before the winter. I’m just a little surprised that he actually _did it_.” 

Jaskier looks at her strangely. “Did you and Geralt talk about me?” 

“I talked,” Yennefer says, one eyebrow arched in her bruised face. “He listened.” 

Jaskier snorts. “That sounds more like it.” 

Yennefer’s lips twitch in a small smile. “But he did find you.” 

“Sort of,” Jaskier says, and all of a sudden realises that he seems to be having a conversation about his relationship with Geralt of Rivia with… _Yennefer_. Of Vengerberg. The sorceress who once grabbed him by the balls and pressed a knife to his throat. “Why are you asking me this, exactly?” 

“It’s something to talk about,” Yennefer answers, a little dismissively – and then, softer, “And because you seem to make him happy.” There’s something a little sad in her voice, and Jaskier abruptly realises that he’s heard the same sadness in Geralt’s voice, too. “We’re not good as a couple,” she says, her head tipped to one side. “And that’s _without_ the whole djinn debacle. But I still care about him, and I want him to find whatever happiness he can in this shitty world. And it’s been patently obvious from the moment I met the pair of you that for some very strange reason, he finds happiness with you.” 

“It can’t be _that_ strange a reason,” Jaskier says, ignoring the tightness in his throat. “You like me too, witch. You saved my life.” 

Yennefer makes a disgruntled noise, but doesn’t disagree. “Don’t make me regret my past choices, bard.” 

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier says, flashing her a smile. “I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret.” 

Yennefer laughs. “Much appreciated,” she says. 

Jaskier studies her for a moment. “Geralt mentioned Sodden,” he says carefully, and doesn’t miss the way her shoulders stiffen. “He said you were there.” 

“I was,” Yennefer says, her eyes shuttered – and then an odd expression flickers across her face and she flashes him a toothy smile. “A part of me still is. Why do you ask?” 

Jaskier shrugs. “Had my own brush with Nilfgaard,” he says, then hastens to add, “Nothing like yours! Gods, no, nothing like a full on _battle_. Just a spot of drugging and attempted kidnapping, nothing especially fancy.” 

Yennefer frowns at him. “Why did Nilfgaard try to kidnap you?”

“They were looking for Geralt,” Jaskier says, trying for nonchalance. “Because of, well, you know. Our mutual friend.” He shrugs. “They figured that I’d know where he was – so the drugging, and the attempted kidnapping.” 

Yennefer frowns. “Only attempted?” she asks. “No offence, bard, but I somehow doubt you managed to fend off Nilfgaardian soldiers by yourself.” 

“None taken,” Jaskier says, bright and airy. “I had help.” 

“Help?” 

“Not Geralt, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Jaskier says, a little wryly. “Made friends with another witcher. Went to Kaer Morhen, too – it’s a whole story.” 

“I imagine it is,” Yennefer says, studying him keenly. She pauses for a second, then says, “You don’t have to try to impress me, you know.” 

Jaskier flushes. “I’m not?” 

“You’re rambling,” Yennefer says, one eyebrow raised. 

“I’m _nervous_ ,” Jaskier says flatly. “Mainly because of the whole having-my-tongue-torn-out thing, but definitely also because you seem to have taken a frankly _disturbing_ interest in my life.” He sniffs. “I don’t need to try to _impress_ you, witch. I’m already impressive enough as it is.” 

Yennefer eyes him pointedly. “Really?” 

Jaskier acts offended. “I’m famous enough for my music to be specifically targeted by a psychotic lunatic who wants to become a god,” he says primly. “I’d say that’s pretty impressive.” 

Yennefer doesn’t answer for a moment, but there’s something that might almost be laughter dancing around the edge of her split lip. “You know,” she says, slow and drawn out. “I heard that song you wrote about me.” 

Jaskier freezes. “Ah, you did?” 

Yennefer hums. “How did it go?” she asks rhetorically, then, to Jaskier’s horror, sings a few bars. “ _But the story is this, / She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_.” Her voice is surprisingly sweet, and it echoes softly around the stones of their cells. 

Jaskier’s pretty sure he’s blushing up to the tips of his ears. “Right,” he says slowly. “Well, this isn’t embarrassing _at all_.” 

“I particularly like the line where you talk about my _current_ ,” Yennefer says, her violet eyes practically fucking _sparkling_. “I’m flattered, bard, I didn’t know you were interested in me that way.” 

The blush gets worse. “In my defence,” Jaskier blusters, “I wrote that before this whole… Geralt-related change of circumstances.”

“It seems to have caught on,” Yennefer says, calm and candid. “I’ve heard at _least_ two other bards parroting that one.” 

“I can only apologise for my wondrous talent,” Jaskier says, ignoring the heated flush in his cheeks. “I promise that my next one will be… nicer?” 

Something twists in Yennefer’s expression. “I can only hope that there will be a next one,” she says, softer. 

Jaskier’s stomach drops. “Well,” he says, trying to ignore how his voice catches. “That’s one way to kill the mood, witch. And here I was, doing my best to provide entertainment and distraction for all of us.” 

Which, of course, is when the very distinctive sound of the key turning in the lock echoes through the air. 

If it was possible, Jaskier’s stomach drops even further. “What _now_?” he groans, because complaining about this whole fucked up situation is infinitely better than crying about it. 

Footsteps come thudding down the wide corridor between the cell bars, slow and measured, and Brannan comes to a stop in front of Jaskier’s cell. He looks down at him for a moment, eyebrow raised, then says, “Time for business, my lord. If you’re not too busy, that is.” 

Jaskier’s sprawled out on the cold stone floor of a prison cell, body not his own to control, tired and weak and with a magical fucking sigil rune burned across his tongue. “I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he says, beaming as much as he can. 

Brannan gestures sharply to the two men with him, and they unlock Jaskier’s cell, scoop him up and sling his arms around their shoulders. They seem a little put-out by the hassle, to be honest, and Jaskier is tempted to say something appropriately sarcastic in response – but then he catches Yennefer’s eye, sees the concern in her violet eyes, and the words die on his tongue. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even try, just holds his gaze for as long as she can, until he’s carried out of sight and the door to the cells is closed behind him with a crash. 

_Oh, fuck._

Unsurprisingly, Jaskier is taken back to the mages’ laboratory, their workshop, their torture-chamber, whatever particular terrifying noun they’d use to describe their surprisingly-airy workspace. He’s bundled back into the same chair as before but this time the two mages don’t bother strapping his arms and legs down, no, they just run the strap across his forehead to keep him in place and let him be. Jaskier flashes the female mage a smile as she looks him over with a critical eye. “I’d say it was good to see you again, my lady,” he says, “if I wasn’t quite so concerned for my life right now.” 

A little to his surprise, she laughs. “Don’t worry, bard,” she says. “No harm will come to you in this room.” 

Jaskier stares at her. “You burned a fucking magical symbol onto my tongue the last time I was here.” 

She shrugs. “True,” she says. “But that’s done now. There won’t be any more pain, I promise you.” 

“So why am I here again?” Jaskier asks. “Not that I’m not glad to be spending time in your presence, of course, there’s nothing I’d like more.” He waggles his eyebrows as best he can. “Is there something you want to tell me?” 

The woman just shakes her head, a smile twitching her lips. 

The door to the mages’ workshop slams open with a suddenness that would have made Jaskier jump half out of his skin if he wasn’t quite so drugged up. A man comes sweeping in, tall, blond, wearing the richest of clothes and the shiniest of ornaments, boots tapping smartly against the stone floor – and he surveys the room in a glance, eyes bright and keen, and when he sees Jaskier his expression just… _lights up_. “Natala, is this him?” he asks, sonorous and rich. 

The female mage—Natala, Jaskier is guessing—turns and greets the newcomer with a bow. “It is, my friend,” she says with a surprisingly genuine smile. “Aldebraan, may I introduce you to the famed Jaskier, the bard of the White Wolf!” 

Jaskier’s mouth is dry. “Almost as good an introduction as I could give myself,” he says, forcing himself to smile. Aldebraan approaches him, something almost reverent in his eyes, and, well, Jaskier is feeling all kinds of uncomfortable with _this_ situation. “I’d bow to you, my lord,” he says, aiming for jovial, “but I’m afraid I find myself a little… tied up right now.” 

Aldebraan handwaves his words. “Now, now, none of that formality,” he says, smiling broadly. “I’m not a lord, no need for titles. I’m just Aldebraan – but, oh, who are _you!_ ” He’s practically _beaming._ “You’re _Jaskier_. Gods, I’d hoped that you’d pass this way at the right time of year one of these days – but I never dreamed it would be at the same time as Yennefer of Vengerberg!” He looks to Natala, who’s – smiling? They both look… _excited_. “It _has_ to work this time, Natala,” Aldebraan says. “With power like hers, fame and talent like his…?” He trails off, shakes his head. “This will be the most potent version of the Bind yet!”

Jaskier thinks he might be sick. “What do you mean, ‘this time’?” he echoes faintly.

Natala ignore him. “Alecsi has been working on a new formulation for the enhancing potion,” she says. “Nothing major, just some tweaks to the ingredients – longer steeping, higher levels of enzyme production. We’re hopeful that this will provide the final ingredient with a serious boost.” 

“The final ingredient,” Jaskier says, his heart beating out of his throat. “That’s my tongue, right?” 

Aldebraan looks back to him, still beaming. “A mighty poet _and_ a formidable intellect!” he says. “Why, my good Jaskier, where have you been all my life?” He laughs, deep and booming. “Never mind, I know the answer, of course – singing the praises of the White Wolf! I saw you perform, you know, maybe six or seven years ago, at the summer solstice in Novigrad.” His face blossoms into an expression that borders on the _ecstatic_. “It was honestly a seminal moment for me in my appreciation of the song cycle form. Simply _stunning_.” 

Jaskier tries to smile. He’s pretty sure it comes out as more of a grimace. “You’re a fan,” he says faintly. 

“Of course I’m a fan,” Aldebraan answers. “Any sensible fellow would be a fan!” 

“You’re such a fan,” Jaskier says, “that you want to cut out my tongue and bathe in my blood?” 

Aldebraan chuckles. “I admit, it’s maybe an unorthodox method of showing my affections,” he says. “But I really do believe that, with you as a part of the ritual, I will finally be able to claim my ascendancy.” He looks at Natala again, then to Alecsi, and the smile on his lips is almost beautiful. “We’ve been trying for so long now. I really feel that this is the year.” 

Jaskier feels vaguely queasy. “How many years have you been trying?” he asks softly. 

Aldebraan frowns at Natala. “What is it, the sixth year now?” 

“The sixth,” she confirms. “And finally we have a _perfect_ combination of ingredients.” She pauses, picks up a small vial of acid-green liquid, then offers it to Aldebraan. “Would you care to do the honours?” 

Aldebraan takes it from her. “This is the new formula of the enhancing potion?”

“It is,” Alecsi confirms, that same book in his hands, tapping it gently against his fingertips. “I’ve been working on it since the failure of the tongue last year – it’s powerful, _very_ powerful. We’ve tried it in combination with various lesser versions of the Bind over the last six months, and it really adds to the potency of the spell.” 

There are tears pricking in Jaskier’s eyes. Lesser versions? “How many people have you killed?” he asks, sharp and piercing, shot through with anger and fear. “How many people have you _murdered?_ ” 

Aldebraan frowns at him. “We are in pursuit of the ultimate here, Jaskier,” he says, sounding almost disappointed. “Immortality! Real, solid immortality! Don’t you think that’s worth it?” 

“No I fucking well do not!” Jaskier snaps. 

Aldebraan sighs. “They do say that you should never meet your heroes,” he says, exchanging a loaded look with Natala. “No matter. Alecsi, will you hold his jaw steady for me?” 

“It would be my pleasure,” Alecsi says, genuine warmth in his voice. His fingers are warm against Jaskier’s skin, too, and the mage wrenches his mouth open, holds him still as Aldebraan pours the acid-green potion into his mouth— _gods_ , it tastes fouler than the last one!—then forces his mouth shut and holds him in place until he drinks it down. 

Aldebraan watches the whole time, his eyes bright and shining, and when Jaskier finally swallows, he laughs and claps his hands like a child. “ _Excellent_ ,” he says, and hands the empty vial back to Natala. “I am _so_ excited for tomorrow morning. It will work, I’m sure of it.” He watches Jaskier slowly, carefully, and a smile spreads across his lips, darker than before, blacker. “And don’t you worry about that little witcher of yours,” he says, softer, nastier. “He’s been sniffing around my home, you know? Asking questions, beating up my officers. Doesn’t quite live up to his reputation in your songs, I’m afraid – not so _white_ in person, is he?” 

Jaskier’s chest is heaving. He has no answer, no retort, all he can do is sit in this stupid fucking chair with the taste of poison and death slicked down the back of his throat. 

Aldebraan hums to himself, a snatch of song, and after a moment Jaskier recognises it as one of his competition songs. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jaskier,” he says, and sketches a bow. “Know that I truly appreciate your part in this ritual, and I will remember you for the rest of my very, very, _very_ long life.” 

“You fuck,” is all Jaskier can manage.

Aldebraan just laughs. “I’ll leave him to your tender mercies, Natala.” 

Natala nods. “We won’t need him for long,” she says, all business. “Just a few fortifying spells, and we need to make sure everything’s holding with the sigil. All _you_ need to do, my friend, is rest. You know how much the ritual takes out of you.” 

“How much the ritual takes out of _him_?” Jaskier echoes. 

Aldebraan ignores him, exchanges a few more words with Natala and Alecsi, then turns his back, and leaves. He walks with a spring in his step, bright and smiling, and Jaskier can hear him laughing as he steps lightly down the corridor. 

Jaskier’s heartbeat is so fucking loud in his ears. 

“Right,” Natala says. “Alecsi, grab the forceps. We’ll take a look at the sigil first, make sure it’s taken.” Alecsi nods, goes to fetch the forceps as requested, and Natala comes close to Jaskier, leans down, peers into his face. “You have to understand,” she says quietly. “This is an _honour_ , bard. You are part of history – this spell has never been successfully completed before, you understand? But tomorrow morning, as dawn rises, it _will be_. All thanks to you.” 

Jaskier doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he can. 

Natala studies him a moment longer, then sighs and straightens. As she does, something around her neck catches Jaskier’s eye, something small and delicate and shining. “Very well,” she says dismissively. “Brannan, come here and get his mouth open.” 

There, around her neck. A slender chain, delicate and dainty, and on it, a set of five tiny keys. 

Jaskier doesn’t fight when Brannan wrenches his mouth open, doesn’t fight when Alecsi grabs his tongue with the forceps, doesn’t fight when they anoint the sigil with all kinds of foul-tasting concoctions and unguents. He lets them do what they want, takes it with a flare of his nostrils and the occasional moan at the taste, and then he lets them drug him again, sweet and honey-slick. He plays nice, he plays sweet, he plays respectful, and when he feels the drugs pushing him into unconsciousness, he lets them. 

Those keys, those five tiny, delicate keys. They’re the keys to the dimeritium cuffs around Yennefer’s wrists and ankles, the keys to the dimeritium collar around her neck. 

And apparently there’s a witcher in the area. 

Jaskier slips into darkness with a strained, bitter smile on his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped to get this chapter up a little sooner, but the world conspired against me! Here it is, and I enjoyed writing this a _lot_. Time for shit to get real...

Jaskier wakes to cold stone under his back and iron bars in front of his face. 

There’s no grogginess, this time, no haze of half-alertness that he has to swim through to full wakefulness. No, this time it’s like he’s just snapped his fingers and he’s back, awake, ready to go. He still can’t move, of course, and if anything the limp paralysis is _worse_ : he can barely twitch his fingers and there’s a slackness in his jaw that he doesn’t like, a rubberiness to his lips that makes him feel faintly queasy.

Actually, no, now that he thinks about it, it’s the _queasiness_ that’s making him feel queasy. There’s a roiling sickness in his stomach, cramping and clenching, a sickness that vaguely reminds him of the time he accidentally got a mouthful of monster blood on one of Geralt’s contracts and ended up vomiting into a bucket for two days. Not one of his more pleasant memories, if he’s honest – and the twisting in his stomach right now is, oh, ten times worse. 

The latest not-good thing to add to the pile of not-good things. 

Jaskier darts his tongue out to wet his lips, tries not to notice the burned ridges. “Yennefer,” he says, hoarse and throaty. 

Yennefer’s eyes are closed, clearly dozing, but they open the moment he speaks. “You’re awake,” she says, stating the obvious just a little. “I was starting to worry that you weren’t going to wake up again.” 

Jaskier’s mouth is noticeably more difficult to shape into words. “Still alive,” he says, rubbery and slurred, then grimaces, tries to lick his lips again.

Yennefer studies him. “The drugs are worse this time, aren’t they?” she asks. 

Jaskier hums in the back of his throat, then chokes out a gargling laugh when he realises he sounds like Geralt. He pauses, takes a breath, says, “How long?” 

“Since they brought you back?” Yennefer supplies. “A few hours, at least. You’ve been passed out pretty much the whole time.” Her lips twist. “They brought us more of their purification decoction, whatever horseshit that stuff is. Held a knife to your throat to keep me in line, even though you were unconscious.” 

“Rude,” Jaskier manages. His lips feel oddly numb. 

Yennefer’s still watching him. “It’ll be to stop you damaging your tongue,” she says softly. “The closer we get to the ritual, the more likely you are to do something that they might see as stupid – like trying to bite your tongue in half. So they’ll drug you even more.” 

Jaskier makes a noise that’s partially amused, partially mocking. He wants to elaborate on that but can’t quite find the words.

Fortunately, however, the unseen elf is listening, too. “It almost sounds like you’ve done this yourself, lady sorceress,” he says dryly. 

“I know how they think,” Yennefer says, only the faintest moue of distaste twisting her lips. “We most likely had the same training, although I hate to think that the name of Aretuza might be dragged through the dirt in a place like this.” 

“Speaking of,” Jaskier half-slurs, something that might almost be excitement thrumming in his chest. “The mage. The woman.” 

Yennefer frowns at him. “I remember her.” 

“Natala,” Jaskier says. “Around her neck. The keys.” 

Yennefer just frowns at him for a moment, uncomprehending. “What keys?” she asks, but even as she’s saying it, Jaskier sees understanding dawn in her eyes. “ _Oh_. The keys to these fucking cuffs?” 

Jaskier really wishes he could nod right about now. “Yeah,” he says. “Around her neck.” 

Yennefer’s eyes _flash_. “If we were sharing a cell,” she says, danger thick and bright in her voice, “I’d kiss you right now.” 

Jaskier does his best to pull a face. “Please don’t.” 

Yennefer laughs, then she pauses, thinks. “Does she know that you know?” she asks, frowning. “Did she _show_ you? Or did you just catch a glimpse while you were trying to stare down her shirt?” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes as best he can. “Not fair,” he manages, then has to pause when he feels drool starting to spool from the corners of his rubbery lips. “And no. Don’t think so.” 

Yennefer nods, practically victorious. “This is good,” she says, and for a moment Jaskier thinks about that knife in her hand, slashing and cutting with the speed and skill of her long, magical life. “This is _very_ good.” 

“There’s more.” 

“More?” 

Jaskier takes a breath. “Geralt’s here,” he says. 

Yennefer’s expression doesn’t change. “That’s not that surprising,” she says softly, and out of the corner of his eye Jaskier sees the pregnant woman coming gradually closer to the bars of her cell, her expression somewhere between terror and hope. “He probably started searching the moment he realised you were missing.”

“ _We_ ,” Jaskier stresses, and leaves it at that. Gods, he hates this – there are so many words he wants to say, overflowing in his brain, but it’s so much fucking _effort_ to get them past his lips. “ _We_ were missing.” 

Yennefer’s smile slides a little softer. “Don’t try to argue with me, Jaskier,” she says, one eyebrow arched. “You don’t have the strength.” 

Jaskier makes a disgruntled noise, but annoyingly he knows she’s right. 

The pregnant woman stirs. “Geralt,” she repeats, the name unfamiliar on her tongue. “As in, Geralt of Rivia? The witcher?” 

“The same,” Jaskier fumbles out, ignoring Yennefer’s noise of irritation. 

There’s a brightness in the pregnant woman’s expression that stirs an answering warmth in Jaskier’s chest. “Does that mean he’ll come for us?” she asks breathlessly. “Does that mean he’ll _save_ us?” 

“It means that there is a chance we will have some support from the outside,” Yennefer says, level and calm, deliberately taking all the inflated hope out of the woman’s sails. “It means that we’re not entirely alone – but it _doesn’t_ mean that we can just rely on him to solve this.” She takes a breath, slow and steady. “If I have a chance,” she says, then pauses, readjusts. “If _any of us_ have a chance to get those keys, we have to take it. As it stands, we’re outnumbered and hopelessly outmatched. If I can get these cuffs off…” She tugs at the ones around her wrists, frustrated, angry. “If I can get these fucking things off, then there’s nothing in this _world_ that will stop me from slaughtering every single one of them. But I have to get them off _first_.” 

“I’d help,” Jaskier fumbles, trying for a smile. “But.” 

Yennefer doesn’t smile. 

Jaskier hears the soft footsteps of the elf in the cell next to his. “And if trying to get the keys to free you, sorceress, results in one of us _dying?_ ” he asks, his voice cold. “If it results in _all of us_ dying, and you being the only one to be freed?” 

Yennefer’s jaw is tight. “What are you saying, elf?” 

“You’re the one with the power, sorceress,” the elf says. “You’re the one who can fight, who only stopped murdering the men who keep us in these cells because they held a knife to your helpless little bard friend’s throat. Which suggests that you care about _him_ , yes, but he said it himself, didn’t he? If you’d given him up, you could have got the rest of us out of here. You could have given us a _chance_. Instead? Instead we’re still here, aren’t we?” He pauses, and the silence in the cells is thunderous. “You don’t care about us, witch. You care about yourself, and about your friend. What’s to stop you getting out of those chains and just leaving the rest of us behind? What’s to—”

“Shut the fuck up, elf,” the Redanian interrupts from the other end of the cells, and Jaskier blinks. “I’ll help you, witch. If I can, I’ll help you. And if I die, then at least I’m dying on my own fucking terms. Not so some rich prick can take my balls and drink my blood.” 

Jaskier’s pretty sure there’s no blood-drinking actually involved in whatever’s about to happen to them, but he doesn’t have the words to bring it up. Plus, it actually sounds like the guy’s on board – which, well, which makes a nice change. He gets the elf’s fear, he really does, he can feel the same nerves thick and solid in his stomach , the same _queasiness_ – although now that he’s thinking about it, that queasiness is starting to feel a lot more like, well, _pain_. 

“All I want to do,” Yennefer says, “is get us the fuck out of here. Get us all the fuck out of here. And it just so happens that I’m the one with the power to do that.” She pauses, and her chest is heaving. Anger, fear, pain. “We have to try,” she says finally, quieter. “We don’t know when they’ll come for us, don’t know when they’re going to attempt the ritual. But we need to have at least some kind of plan for when they do. And this isn’t much of a plan, but it’s something.” 

Jaskier licks his lips as much as he can. “Tomorrow morning,” he says, and it might just be his imagination but the words sound so fucking loud in the quiet. “The ritual. Tomorrow morning.” 

Fear stutters in Yennefer’s eyes. “They told you?” 

Jaskier can’t nod, but he does his best, anyway. 

“Shit,” Jaskier hears the Redanian swear, and the pregnant woman inhales sharply, painfully. The elf doesn’t make a sound. 

“Tomorrow morning, then,” Yennefer says, all the fear wiped away. “And when they come, we’ll be ready.” 

Jaskier’s stomach clenches and cramps, bile bitter and slick at the back of his throat. 

Geralt watches the sun crawl through the sky, slow and pausing. 

Ciri’s asleep at his side, a corner of her cloak pulled up over her eyes to block out the light, her fingers fidgeting in the long grass as she dreams. Eskel sits with his back against a tree a few metres away, sliding a whetstone down his steel sword with exacting, rhythmic precision, and every now and then he whistles a few notes of some tune that Geralt can’t quite place. There’s food in Geralt’s belly and a waterskin at his side, and the springtime sunlight glides through the trembling leaves overhead, warm and glimmering. 

In any other context, this would be the perfect way to while away a few hours in the morning. 

Geralt thinks of Jaskier, briefly, thinks of him braiding the curls of Ciri’s ash-blonde hair, thinks of him harmonising with Eskel’s halting notes, thinks of him leaning back against Geralt’s shoulder with his lute in his arms, staring up at the blue of the sky and the green of the trees. He would laugh, Geralt knows, laugh and chatter and sing. 

He _will_. He _will_ laugh and chatter and sing. 

Geralt forces himself to breathe, to wait, to prepare. 

Jaskier lies on his side in that cold stone cell where Brannan and his men left him, the skin of his face flat against the chill granite. He can hear Yennefer’s voice, hear her talking in soft tones to the pregnant woman and to the Redanian, occasionally, but the words sound like they’re coming from far away – because there’s a strange fog in his brain, now, a fog that starts in the dark places of his cramping stomach and spreads up through his chest, his shoulders, his heart.

“Jaskier?” he vaguely hears Yennefer asks, and there’s concern in her voice. 

Jaskier makes a pained, animal sound, and vomits onto the stones beneath him. 

It doesn’t help. 

Night falls slowly, as slowly as the sun crawled across the sky. 

They eat at their little campsite, the three of them, bread and cheese without a fire, and then they go to take up their positions, deep in the darkness of the trees. The woods are honeycombed with paths and trails, some narrow enough for only a single person, some wide enough that a whole royal procession could pass down them without difficulty, but there’s only one that the soldiers use, the soldiers they watched going to and from that chalked clearing, the soldiers wearing rose livery and grim smiles. It’s a broad path, this one, and it winds through the trees in a mostly-straight line, a few bumps and deviations to get around rock outcroppings and too-thick knots of trees.

At one point, maybe a mile away from the ritual clearing, that path passes through a small natural depression. The banks on either side are steep enough to corral anyone who goes through it into a winding, narrow trail, but to go around would add maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes onto the journey. 

It’s an obvious ambush point. 

Geralt settles in to wait a few hundred metres further down the path, the ground flat and level under his feet. 

Eskel’s somewhere on the other side of the broad track, hidden by the darkness and the rustle of the wind. Geralt doesn’t know where exactly, but he’s hunted with Eskel enough times over the long years of their lives that he knows he’ll be exactly where he needs to be – and yes, it’s true that they’ve never hunted anything quite like _this_ before, but he trusts him. He trusts him with his life, with _Jaskier’s_ life. In the end, that’s all there is to it. 

It took a long, fraught argument for Ciri to agree to stay back, and it was only really until Geralt took her by the shoulders and told her she’d be a liability in any fight that she listened. There was anger in her bright, young eyes, anger and frustration and just a dash of hatred, but Geralt knows it was the right thing to do. She’s trained with the witchers of Kaer Morhen, yes, but that doesn’t mean she _is_ one of them. She’s a girl, a princess, and she can fight and scratch and bite, yes, but this isn’t the training ground in the mountains, half-covered in snow. This is real, and there are real stakes here, real _lives_. So Ciri’s further away, hidden in the woods, watching over the horses and their luggage, and she’ll stay there until it’s done.

At least, Geralt is reasonably sure she’ll stay there until it’s done. 

The night passes, slow and dull, but it isn’t the first time that Geralt has sat and waited for a monster to appear. It probably won’t be the last. 

The door to Jaskier’s cage scrapes open with a groan of hinges. 

He’s dozing, halfway between waking and sleeping, trying his best to ignore the stench of vomit that permeates his clothes and his skin, but he’s dragged into wakefulness quite literally, a hand in the roots of his hair. He cries out as much as he can—which isn’t a lot—but then his arms are being slung around the shoulders of two burly soldiers and he’s being carried down the corridor, past the other cells. He’s so full of drugs by this point that he can’t even raise his head, and his chin lolls against his chest, rough and uncaring. 

He faintly hears the other cells being opened, too, the gruff shouts of the Redanian, Yennefer’s outraged curses, and he thinks quite clearly, quite lucidly, _This is it._

Jaskier breathes, harsh and cracking. 

Geralt hears them before he sees them, the march of a column of men, footsteps loud in the quiet of the night. The flickering light of their torches is hidden by the narrow ravine for a long time, and Geralt sinks back into the darkness, watches for them to emerge. It doesn’t take long. 

There are a _lot_ of rose-liveried soldiers, maybe forty, but it’s difficult to tell with the irregularity of the light and the constant movement. They march with the confidence and cohesion of professional soldiers, armed to the teeth, vigilant and watchful in the darkness of the night, and Geralt’s stomach doesn’t _drop_ , per se, but it definitely settles lower than it should be. And then there’s the mages, two of them, a woman at the front and the man they saw before at the back, which means that the centre of the column is vulnerable – as much as any column of heavily-armed professionals can be. 

Geralt readjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword, settles lower onto his haunches, breathes level and calm. 

_There._

In the centre of the column, protected, defended, ensnared. Prisoners, that’s what they are, that’s what Geralt knows they are because they’re bound and restrained, guards at their shoulders, holding their arms – and there are more of them than they expected, five of them, shit, that complicates things, but then—

Then everything just sort of goes still for a long moment.

Yennefer, bruises sprawled across her face, chin upright and haughty. She’s walking of her own accord, pulling away from the hands that hold her back, and for a second Geralt wonders why she’s not just blasting everyone around her into oblivion – but then he sees the manacles around her wrists, her neck, the metal shining dark and stinking of magic, and he understands. He grimaces in the darkness, because that answers a lot of questions but it’s not the answer he wanted. They’ll need to figure out how to get those fucking manacles off before she can help. That’ll have to be the first thing he does, and somehow he doubts that he can just cut them off, no, dimeritium cuffs don’t tend to be that straightforward. That’s another problem. That’s another thing they’ll have to fix. 

And then behind Yennefer. 

Geralt digs his fingers so hard into the muscle of his thigh that he knows it’ll bruise. 

Where Yennefer is poise and resilient, Jaskier is boneless and unresponsive, slung between two of the soldiers, tips of his boots dragging along the forest track. Geralt can smell the reek of drugs on the air from his position hidden in the trees and he bares his teeth, feels his heartbeat kick up a notch in his chest, and he’s fighting the urge to just _go_ , to run, to attack and protect what’s his. 

But that’s not the plan. 

The column progress on along the path, and Geralt follows.

There are a handful of soldiers patrolling through the darkness of the woods on either side, and as they go Geralt picks them off, leaving them groaning, broken heaps in the grass. He knows Eskel is doing the same on the other side, thinning the ranks as much as they can, and he _also_ knows that Eskel’s the one who’s going to decide when they go in. It’s the right decision, he knows it is, because he can practically feel his self-control shattering every time he smells that drugged reek, every time he sees the slackness in Jaskier’s body. 

Geralt breathes, and waits. 

The column progresses, slow and careful, torches flaming in the cool springtime air. 

The call of a barn owl whistles through the air, a little too harsh, a little too grating to be an actual bird. 

Geralt doesn’t hesitate. He barrels through the trees as fast as a witcher can move, cannoning into the column, heading straight for Yennefer. He sees Eskel out of the corner of his eye, moving lightning-fast, darting towards Jaskier – and it hurts Geralt’s heart a little, twists him and pulls at him, but if there’s anyone in this world he trusts with Jaskier’s life, it’s Eskel. 

Geralt takes three of those godsdamned soldiers down before they even realise he’s there – but, fuck, they’re professionals, they’re trained, they know what they’re doing and it’s only seconds before they regroup. Geralt’s stopped before he gets to Yennefer, two blades coming clashing across his at the same time, and he only has the briefest chance to catch Yennefer’s startled gaze before he’s in the thick of it, fighting for someone else’s life. 

Yennefer screams something that Geralt can’t quite make out, punches the soldier at her right shoulder in the crotch, and grabs his sword. 

Geralt feels something warm and angry building in his chest, and fights. 

“ _The mage!_ ” he hears Yennefer bark, and then she’s right there, her back pressing up against his, voice high and scratchy. “She’s got the keys to these fucking cuffs!” 

Geralt looks for the mage – at exactly the right time, as it turns out, because she’s looking at him, too, anger bubbling up in her eyes, and her hand is up, power building at her fingertips. Geralt reacts instinctively, throws up his hand, casts a hurried Aard and sweeps her feet out from under her before she can cast her spell. She thuds to the ground with a sharp cry and Geralt starts to run for her before he’s caught by three of those fucking soldiers, one of their blades slicing deep into the meat of his shoulder before he manages to catch them.

Except one of the other prisoners is ahead of him, an elf with a shock of blond hair and a shirt that’s half-torn down the back. There’s a knife that he’s clearly grabbed from one of the soldiers in his hand, dipped in blood, and he hurls himself at the mage, a cry of pure rage on his lips. He smashes into her while she’s still down, and Geralt sees them struggle for three, maybe four seconds before the elf’s knife stabs into the mage’s stomach and she _bellows_. 

Geralt’s sword goes through a soldier’s neck, and he sees as the elf wrenches something from around the mage’s neck. “ _Witch!_ ” he roars, guttural and fraught, and then something sparkling and bright is arching through the air, a necklace, Geralt thinks, a necklace _laced with keys._

Geralt snatches the keys out of the air at the same time as a sword erupts from the centre of the elf’s chest. He looks down at the blade, expression almost surprised, then crashes to his knees, blinks once, and dies. 

“Fuck,” Yennefer snaps, angry and heartsick. “ _Fuck!_ ” – and one of the other prisoners, a woman, heavy with child, screams loud and agonised into the night.

Eskel’s owl call sounded less than a minute ago. 

“ _Geralt!_ ” 

It’s Eskel. 

The air is filled with the smell of blood, rich and potent, blood from the soldiers, blood from Yennefer’s split lip, blood from the wound slashed in Geralt’s shoulder – but all of a sudden there’s a _new_ spill of blood, sharp and stinking. It’s a smell Geralt recognises, and his heart practically crashes through his ribs as he spins on his heel, the keys dangling limp and forgotten from his hand.

One of the men holding Jaskier is dead, nothing more than a crumpled heap of meat on the ground, but the other is still standing, a snarl on his lips and a hand in Jaskier’s hair. The soldier has Jaskier’s head wrenched up and a knife pressed tight across his throat – and, shit, Jaskier’s awake. Geralt assumed he was unconscious, assumed he was out, but Jaskier’s eyes are wide open, bright blue in the depth of the firelight, and he’s staring at Geralt, shock and hope and joy. Except there’s that knife, digging deeper, and there’s blood spilling down Jaskier’s throat, staining into the already bloodstained neck of his shirt.

“Drop your weapons, or I’ll slit his _fucking_ throat!” the soldier holding him snarls. “ _Now_ , witchers!” 

Eskel’s on the ground, up on his elbows with a spray of blood across his scarred face. Geralt’s too far away, and there’s a knot of rose-liveried soldiers tight around him, Yennefer’s pressed close up against his back. 

But they can’t give up. 

“Geralt, _don’t_ ,” Jaskier says, his voice slurred, halting.

Geralt doesn’t get a chance to tell him exactly how _fucking stupid_ that command is, because before any of them can do anything, a knife comes whistling through the air, razor sharp, and it buries itself in the soldier’s eye. It’s inexpertly thrown and it slices a gash in Jaskier’s cheek, sending more of that slick, red scent into the air – but the soldier staggers, his grip on Jaskier loosening. 

And then Geralt hears the wild whinny of a horse, and Roach comes crashing through the trees, Ciri hunkered low on her back. She whoops, wild and keen, and hurls another knife, one of the ones Vesemir gave her before they left Kaer Morhen, a twin to the one in that soldier’s eye – and the second knife sinks into the throat of the man behind Geralt, the man with a raised sword and a look of sharp concentration on his face. He falls, stricken, and Ciri wheels Roach around, a look of triumph in her gaze. 

“ _Ciri!_ ” Geralt barks. “ _Get out of here!_ ” 

Except she’s already laying into the men around her. 

“Geralt, the keys!” Yennefer snaps, and she grabs them out of his hand. “I need to get these fucking cuffs off, Geralt – cover me.” 

“ _Shit_.” 

That’s Eskel’s voice, sharp and rigid, and Geralt’s head spins back to Jaskier. Eskel’s holding him up, one of Jaskier’s arms slung around his shoulders, holding off two of the remaining soldiers with his one free hand – and, oh, there’s too much blood soaking the front of his shirt for just a nick. Geralt’s heart surges in his chest, panicked, panicking, and he takes a step forward.

“ _Geralt!_ ” Yennefer barks, still twisting one of the tiny keys in the cuff at her left wrist. 

Geralt can’t leave her, not like this. 

“Eskel, _go!_ ” Geralt shouts. “Get him out of here! Get him help!” 

Eskel’s gaze is wild as he sinks his sword into one of the soldier’s bellies. “Can’t leave you, Geralt!” 

“We’re fine,” Geralt snaps, at exactly the same time as Ciri sends Roach stampeding through one of the few remaining knots of enemy soldiers. The mare’s eyes are rolling, foam flecking her muzzle, and she kicks out, trampling limbs, crushing skulls under her hooves. The remaining two prisoners are crouched together at the centre of that knot of soldiers, a young man and the same pregnant woman Geralt saw before, and Ciri leans down, slices the bonds around their wrists, says something Geralt can’t quite catch – and just for a moment, pride surges warm and rich in his chest. 

Except then there’s a blast of energy through the air, staining the back of Geralt’s tongue with ozone, and Ciri’s being tossed from Roach’s back, thudding to the ground with a cry. Roach whinnies loudly and _bolts_ , disappearing into the trees. 

The mages, both of them, male and female. There’s blood staining the woman’s clothes but the wound is closed, and there’s fury on both their faces – and then the woman _screams_ , high and full of rage. There’s power in that scream, crackling and bitter around the edges, and it sparks static in Geralt’s hair, pricks his skin into goosebumps. 

A brief stillness settles over the carnage, over the corpses, over the flickering light of the torches and the red spilled pools of blood. Even the rose-liveried soldiers pause, weapons held slack in their hands. 

“Eskel,” Geralt says, a little more hoarse. 

“Yeah,” Eskel says, just as hoarse. “Yeah, okay.” He whistles, sharp and piercing, and there’s a clatter of hoofbeats as Llwyd bursts out of the trees. At least Eskel’s fucking _horse_ knows when to stay back, and in a heartbeat Eskel’s in the saddle, Jaskier held tight in his arms – and Geralt sees it before they go, sees that Jaskier’s eyes are closed, sees that his body is limp, sees the blood that’s practically _pooling_ in his lap. 

There’s _so much blood._

Sickness settles in Geralt’s stomach. 

Eskel kicks his heels into Llwyd’s sides, and they’re gone into the trees. 

The smell of Jaskier’s blood doesn’t fade. 

“Geralt, help me,” Yennefer says, her voice low. She’s got the cuffs around her wrists and ankles off – but there’s still the collar around her neck, and Geralt sees that she can’t reach the lock by herself. “ _Geralt,_ ” Yennefer says again, insistent, but then there’s another pair of soldiers in Geralt’s face, snarling and enraged, and he can’t exactly just _ignore_ them, can he? 

“It’s _ruined_ ,” Geralt hears the female mage snarl as she stalks towards Ciri, still prostrate and moaning on the ground, her hair splayed out in the dirt. “The ritual was _perfect_ , and now the elf is dead and the bard is gone and it is _ruined_.” Her hand lashes out, fingers pointed, and Ciri cries out in pain, her back arching off the ground, electricity crackling around her temples. “I don’t know who you are, you little _bitch_ , but you will _pay_.”

Geralt turns on his heel, grabs the key from Yennefer’s hand, and shoves it into the lock on the back of the dimeritium collar. The snap of the collar unlocking is almost lost over the rattle of the torches, the groans of dying men, Ciri’s relentless, agonising screams – but then the collar is falling, falling away, falling to the ground with a soft thud.

Geralt meets Yennefer’s gaze, violet and bright, and he watches as power floods through every fibre of her body. 

“Get Ciri and the other prisoners,” she says, pupils expanding, lightning sparking from her fingertips. 

Geralt just nods, and dives for Ciri’s twitching body. 

Electricity explodes through the air. It dances from body to body, making the few remaining rose-liveried soldiers dance like puppets, dropping them to the ground, burned out and broken – and then all that power, all that _pain_ is jolting towards the two mages. There’s just time for the male mage to shout some incoherent warning and then Ciri is released from the torture as the two of them throw up a protective shield for Yennefer’s attack to crackle and smash against. 

Geralt crawls under the all-out assault, crawls to Ciri. She’s curled on her side, sobbing with the pain, tears streaking her dirty face, and the pregnant woman is grasping one of her hands, saying reassuring words in a low voice that all go over Geralt’s head, if he’s honest, because she’s _okay_. “Ciri,” he says again, then belatedly remembers that they’re supposed to be keeping a low profile. He gathers Ciri into his arms, then eyes the other two prisoners. “Can you move?” he asks.

The pregnant woman has the young man’s hand gripped tight in hers, and she meets Geralt’s gaze, level and head on. “Anything to get out of here,” she says, high-pitched and terrified. 

At her side, the young man doesn’t seem to be able to speak. Every inch of his body is trembling.

“Come with me,” Geralt says, and leads them to the treeline. The pregnant woman is practically holding the man up by the time they get there, and Geralt leaves them out of the way, only pauses for a second before he sets Ciri down with them, runs a hand through her hair and turns back to the fight still raging behind him. 

Yennefer is _magnificent_ , incandescent with power, a scream of fury on her lips and blood just starting to spill from her nose – but the two mages between them are just enough to hold her at bay. Their shield is flickering and unsteady but it’s still _there_ , still thwarting Yennefer’s all-out assault, and the two of them huddle behind it, cowed but not defeated, not yet. 

Geralt can help with that. 

He raises his hand, summons as much energy as he can, and casts Aard. It shivers into the mage’s shield but doesn’t break it – and so Geralt casts it again, and again, and again, and by himself he’s no match for two fucking mages but maybe he can give Yennefer the smallest opening, just for a second, that’s all she needs. 

“ _Keep going!_ ” Yennefer bellows.

Exhaustion saps through Geralt’s gut and he falls to one knee, grunts, feels blood start to wet his upper lip. He blinks, shakes his head, then casts Aard again – but it’s weaker, too weak. “Fuck,” he bites out, and tries again. 

A hand settles on his shoulder, small and tight, and Ciri comes to kneel next to him. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word, just curls her other hand tight around his outstretched fingers, and all of a sudden Geralt can feel her power running through him, her _strength_. 

He casts Aard one last time. 

The mages’ shield shatters, and Yennefer’s power goes surging into the gap. It only lasts a second. 

Yennefer drops her arms and staggers, but catches herself before she falls. The forest is still and silent, littered with bodies, bloody and burned, and the only light is from the few remaining torches, guttering and fading. All Geralt can hear is his own breath, loud and gasping, and then all of a sudden the pregnant woman is going past him, walking heavy and awkward, one hand on her belly, the other at her waist. She goes to Yennefer, catches her when she wavers again, holds her steady, holds her firm. “Thank you,” she whispers, helping her stagger towards Geralt. “Thank you for saving us.” 

Pain flashes through Yennefer’s eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save us all,” she whispers, and Geralt glances back at the body of the elf, sprawled out and broken in the dirt. Yennefer staggers closer, and she’s looking up at Geralt, now, her lips tight. “Jaskier?” she asks. “Is he safe?” 

And all of a sudden, all Geralt can think about is the stench of Jaskier’s blood.


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier swims in and out of consciousness. 

He’s on the back of a horse, riding at a gallop through dark, low-hanging trees. For a second he’s not entirely sure how he’s _staying_ on the horse because, well, he’s not holding the reins and there’s literally no strength in his limbs, but then he notices the firm chest behind him and the strong arms holding him in place. His heart doesn’t stutter or leap or clench in his chest, no, he’s pretty sure he’s too close to dying for that, but he does make a noise in the back of his throat that he thinks was mostly intended to be Geralt’s name. 

A broad hand presses flat against his chest. “Hold on, Jaskier,” a voice that isn’t Geralt’s says. “Just… hold on, okay?” 

Jaskier blinks, opens his mouth, and vomits another fountain of blood down himself. 

It all goes a bit fuzzy after that. 

When he drags himself back to consciousness, he’s being lifted down off that same horse, his limbs loose and pliant, his mind pretty much the same. That same voice is talking to him, voice tight and worried, and then there’s a vial of something being pressed to his lips and, well, he’s learned pretty well these past few days that swallowing things without knowing what they are is _bad_. 

He protests, gurgles, jerks his head away as much as he can.

“Hey, hey, Jaskier,” that voice says, and Eskel’s face hoves into view, forehead furrowed, concern and worry flashing in his witcher eyes. “It’s okay. It’s me. I’m repaying the favour, okay?” He lifts the vial to Jaskier’s lips again, and Jaskier doesn’t fight. “Now maybe you can finally stop going on about those damn wyverns,” Eskel says, a smile on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Wyverns,” Jaskier repeats, absent and echoing, and passes out again. 

The next time he wakes, he’s flat on his back on the cold ground, something cold and stinging being smeared into his cheek. He whines, high-pitched and insistent, and a hand smoothes through his hair, gentling him. “I’ve got you,” Eskel says, surprisingly gentle. “I need to sterilise these cuts, okay? Fuck knows what those bastards had on their blades – can’t have you contracting some nasty infection before Geralt’s had a chance to come and throw himself at your feet, can I?” 

Jaskier saw Geralt, in the battle that erupted out of nowhere. He met his gaze, golden bright and full of fear, and he said, “ _Don’t_.” 

And Geralt’s not here. 

Fear surges in Jaskier’s addled brain. “Geralt?” 

Eskel’s fingers dance to the cut in his throat, spreading that same stinging cold. “Had to leave them behind,” he says, jaw tight. “Him and his sorceress. Ciri, too.” He bares his teeth, just for a moment. “Had to get you out of there.” 

“Alive?” Jaskier breathes. 

Eskel’s silence gives him all the answer he needs. 

Jaskier thinks about that for a moment, but his brain is having trouble holding on to thoughts of more than one word. Then he feels something hot and bitter rising in his throat, uncontrollable, uncontrolled, and warm, acrid blood comes spilling out from between his lips, gushing across his chin, his cheeks, across Eskel’s hands, Eskel’s clothes. 

Jaskier’s vision blurs to the soundtrack of Eskel’s fervent curses. 

After that, for a while all Jaskier knows is pain. 

The prisoners are slowing Geralt down. 

He knows why, it’s _obvious_ why. There’s five of them, now, him and Ciri and Yennefer, plus the two other intended sacrifices who were a completely unintended consequence of this whole fuck-up – and, well, even if they _didn’t_ have a pregnant woman and a clearly traumatised young Redanian man in tow, Roach couldn’t carry them all anyway. And he could just throw caution to the winds and jump up on Roach’s back, crack her reins and send her galloping through the close-packed trees to find the rendezvous point that they established for exactly this kind of situation – but that would mean leaving a shaking Cintran princess and a worn-out sorceress alone in enemy territory, not to mention the aforementioned unexpected no-longer-sacrifices, and like _fuck_ is he about to leave anyone else behind, ever again. 

But he can still smell Jaskier’s fucking _blood_. 

Realistically, he actually probably can’t. They’re at least a mile away from the site of the slaughter by now, the pregnant woman and Ciri riding together on a remarkably-placid Roach, the Redanian man staying close by, Yennefer leaning on Geralt’s arm – and Jaskier didn’t get a chance to bleed on any of them, so that means that there is no way that there’s any of his blood around for Geralt to smell. But it’s still there, that awful stench, slicking the back of his throat, the smell of hurt and death and fear. 

Yennefer’s fingers wrap tight around Geralt’s elbow. “How much further?” she asks, her voice hoarse. 

Geralt glances up at the sky, squints at the trees around them. Dawn is already starting to brighten the sky, and Geralt winces. The carnage they left behind will be found before long, and then these woods will be flooded with Aldebraan’s rose-liveried soldiers – and they can’t still be here when that happens. “Another mile or so,” he says gruffly. “We need to move faster.” 

Yennefer nods and picks up the pace. Geralt matches his steps to hers, still slower than he wants to go but quicker than before, and Roach follows obediently, the sound of her hooves muffled in the soft loam. “The man who took him,” Yennefer says, her voice tight, and for a second Geralt doesn’t understand what she means. “The man who was with you, the one who rode off with Jaskier. I’m assuming from the fact that you let him touch your bard that you trust him?” 

“With my life,” Geralt answers immediately, sharp as a pin. 

Yennefer studies him. “Another witcher?” 

Geralt nods shortly. “His name is Eskel.” 

Yennefer’s gaze is impenetrable, black as pitch. “He’ll be waiting for us?” 

All of a sudden, Geralt understands. He’d almost miss a step if he wasn’t a witcher, and he frowns down at Yennefer, a little incredulous. “Are you… _worried?_ ” he asks. “About Jaskier?” He doesn’t quite know what to think for a moment. “The last time you two met, you were at each other’s throats.“ 

“The last time we met,” Yennefer says, “was on a frivolous dragon hunt halfway up a mountain. The _last_ time we met, you and I were still… doing whatever the fuck it was we were doing.” Despite himself, something a little sad curls in Geralt’s gut at that – but there’s a fixed look in Yennefer’s eyes that he knows means he can’t afford to wallow in his own self-pity. “The last time I met Jaskier,” she says, softer, “I didn’t have to watch him be drugged and threatened and… _mutilated_ for the sake of some rich bastard’s sadistic whims. I didn’t have to watch someone you love suffer, didn’t have to just stand there and let it happen.” She pauses, just for a heartbeat. “It’s changed our relationship a little.” 

Geralt stopped listening about halfway through that monologue. “ ‘Mutilated’?” he echoes, a sick feeling settling deep in his stomach. 

Yennefer’s hand squeezes his elbow, but she doesn’t answer.

They walk in tense silence, and Geralt does his level best not to panic. 

The trees whisper around them, rustling like they’re sharing secrets, and the dawn slowly paints the sky in brighter colours. The sky is cloudless and brilliant, forecasting a warm early-spring day, which is lovely and all, but Geralt couldn’t give less of a fuck about the weather right now. He can feel the others flagging, Yennefer nearly drained of her magic, the two human prisoners exhausted and terrified – even Ciri is unnaturally quiet, shocked and drooping now that the adrenaline has worn off. He wants to push them faster, push them harder, but they’d break if he even tried. 

_Fuck,_ Geralt thinks, and catches Yennefer as she stumbles. 

The sun is climbing above the horizon when Geralt catches a familiar smell slicking through the air, more than just a memory. His heart thuds louder in his chest, and he says, “Shit,” before he can catch himself.

“Geralt?” Yennefer asks. 

Geralt grits his teeth. “I can smell his blood,” he says shortly. 

“Jaskier?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Is he close?” Yennefer asks. 

Geralt nods, and speeds up. 

The rendezvous he agreed with Eskel is at a rough rocky outcropping, sheltered from prying eyes by a thick knot of oak trees, distinctive enough that it’d be hard to miss even in the dark. The first thing Geralt sees is Eskel’s grey gelding, tethered loosely to a low-hanging bough and grazing absently on the sweet new shoots underfoot – but then the leaves shift and they’re there, Eskel sitting with Jaskier propped up against his chest, the pair of them practically _soaked_ in Jaskier’s blood.

At his side, Geralt hears Yennefer swear loudly. 

He’s on his knees at Jaskier’s side before he really knows what’s happened. Jaskier’s eyes are closed, his breathing shallow, and even as Geralt is watching a spasm wracks his body, sends a gurgle of thick red liquid spilling from between his lips. Geralt reaches for him but doesn’t know where to touch, everything so spattered with _blood_ , and he sees Eskel grimace at his hesitation. “He’s been like this for half an hour at least,” Eskel says, tight and low. “No fucking clue why. I gave him a healing draught which slowed it a bit, but not enough. I have no idea what’s wrong with him – his wounds are nowhere _near_ serious enough for this.” 

“There were potions that they made him drink,” Yennefer says, sinking to her knees next to Geralt with a grace that belies the exhaustion written in her eyes. She presses one hand to Jaskier’s chest, heedless of the blood, then the other goes to rest carefully over his lips. She’s quiet for a moment, clearly concentrating, and then she hisses, retracts her hands. “Whatever they gave him, it’s eating away at his insides,” she says flatly. 

“I thought they wanted to sacrifice him, not melt him from the inside,” Eskel bites off. 

Yennefer’s expression is stone. “We were all supposed to be dead by now,” she says flatly. “I imagine they didn’t really plan for this.” 

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand, limp and unresponsive, holds it like it’ll break if he puts too much pressure on it. “Can you help him?” he asks. 

Yennefer shakes her head. “I don’t have the skill or the energy for this,” she says. “I know someone who does.” 

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Eskel snaps. “Take us to them. Now!” 

Geralt understands, though. There’s a tremble in Yennefer’s hands, a solemnity to the wrinkles around her eyes. “Do you have the strength for a portal?” he asks, his thumb brushing rhythmic, nervous touches across the back of Jaskier’s hand. 

“I don’t know,” Yennefer says. “And if I don’t, there’s a very real possibility that trying to create one could fuck this whole thing up more than it is already.” 

Eskel stiffens, Jaskier still limp in his arms, and looks up at Geralt – but he’s not reacting to Yennefer’s words, no, that’s not what he’s reacting to _at all_. “Tell me I’m imagining that,” Eskel says, his gaze blazing, his voice sharp. 

On the air, echoing through the trees, far away but getting rapidly closer. 

“Dogs,” Geralt says. “Fuck, _hunting dogs_.” 

What little colour was left in Yennefer’s face drains away. “I guess I have to try,” she says, and hauls herself to her feet. 

There’s a rustle from behind them, and Ciri clambers down from Roach’s back, her legs shaky, her eyes still a little wild. She takes Yennefer’s hand without asking, without offering, just entwines their fingers and then looks up at her, her face so young and yet so full of knowledge. 

Yennefer inhales. “Are you sure?” she asks, quieter, softer.

A howl sounds on the air, loud enough that Geralt doesn’t need witcher hearing to pick it out. The Redanian man swears under his breath, astonishingly foul, and the pregnant woman urges Roach a little closer. 

“We don’t have a choice,” Ciri answers, high and proud. 

“She’s right, we don’t,” Geralt says. He steadies himself, then leans forward, gathers Jaskier in his arms, takes him from Eskel as gently as he can. Jaskier isn’t a small man, despite all his finery, despite his lightness of touch, and but nonetheless he’s surprisingly light to carry, and Geralt is choosing not to think about why exactly that is right now. Starvation, blood loss. All the fun side effects of a kidnapping – but Geralt can still feel Jaskier’s pulse under his fingertips, slow but still there, still beating. “Yen,” he says as he gets to his feet, desperately trying not to jostle Jaskier more than he has to. “Make the portal. Now.” 

Yennefer nods as Eskel scrambles up, Jaskier’s blood staining his clothes, and grabs Llwyd’s reins in one hand, Roach’s in the other. Yennefer raises her hand, closes her eyes, and Geralt’s medallion thrums against his chest at the power that floods the air, one strand faint with the smell of lilacs and gooseberries, the other stronger, more vibrant, dark as the earth, bright as the sky. 

In Geralt’s arms, Jaskier doesn’t stir. Blood is tacky on his skin. 

The portal opens without warning, blowing Yennefer’s hair back, drawing a gasp from the pregnant woman – who, of course, has probably never seen true magic before. There’s no time to stop and wonder, though, because Geralt can hear the dogs, now, closer than ever, and there, behind the barking, the sound of horses’ hooves and men’s voices. 

“Go,” Yennefer says, strained and hoarse. 

Eskel goes first, taking the horses and the other survivors with him, and Geralt follows close on his heels. The first thing he does when he’s through is look back for Yennefer, for _Ciri_ , but then they follow them through, tears in Ciri’s eyes, exhaustion thick in Yennefer’s expression. The portal snaps shut behind them, and the moment it closes Yennefer sags, stumbles, nearly falls. Eskel darts to catch her, one arm around her waist, and she sighs, her head hanging forward. 

“ _Yennefer?_ ” 

Geralt recognises that voice. 

They’re in the forecourt of a small suburban house that, from the architecture, Geralt is guessing is somewhere in Temeria. The ground is hardpacked under his boots, pressed tight from years of passage, and the front gate of the forecourt is firmly closed, although the delicate, twiningly-decorative ironwork doesn’t really look like it could keep out anyone who really wanted to get in. The front door to the house is open, giving a glimpse of an interior that looks warm and cosy – and Triss Merigold is practically running down the front steps, surprise and horror twisted across her face. 

Yennefer forces her head up, flashes Triss a reassuring smile that’s belied by quite how tightly she’s holding on to Eskel’s arm. “I’m fine,” she says, clearly not fine. “It’s Jaskier, he needs you.” 

Triss’ attention switches to Geralt, to Jaskier, limp and bloody in his arms, and in the blink of an eye all that panic is wiped off her face. “Is he alive?” she asks, skipping greetings and going straight to what matters. 

“He’s alive,” Geralt says. “Weak and drugged and vomiting blood, but he’s still alive.” 

“Good,” Triss says, then casts the briefest glance over their odd little party. Her jaw sets. “Follow me, all of you,” she says eventually. “And bring _him_ quickly.” 

They leave Roach and Llwyd to investigate the forecourt, and pile into the Temerian townhouse that Geralt is assuming belongs to Triss in some way. There are sofas and soft furnishings aplenty, and Geralt catches a glimpse of what looks like a very nicely appointed kitchen, all gleaming brass fittings and smooth stone floors, but Triss just leads them straight to what looks very much like her workroom. There’s a broad wooden table that she clears with a sweep of her arm, and Geralt doesn’t need the accompanying gesture to tell him to lay Jaskier out in the empty space.

Jaskier’s head lolls from side to side as Geralt does his best not to jostle him, and then a fresh surge of blood comes flooding up over his lips, spilling onto the clean table beneath him. 

Triss is already pressing her hand to his forehead. “What happened to him?” she asks, brisk and quick. “The wounds I can see aren’t anywhere near bad enough to warrant this kind of damage.” 

Yennefer is half-carried into the workroom, her arm looped tight around Eskel’s neck. “The Bind of Five, Triss,” she says shortly. “It was the fucking Bind of Five.” 

That clearly means something to Triss, even though it’s only so much gibberish to Geralt. “Shit,” Triss swears. “He’s the bard.” 

“Yeah,” Yennefer confirms. 

“His tongue?” 

“Marked,” Yennefer answers grimly. 

_Marked?_ “What’s wrong with his tongue?” Geralt grinds out. 

Triss and Yennefer ignore him. “They were feeding him all kinds of shit,” Yennefer says. “Drugging him, but then other things, too. He was throwing up normally before this started, so whatever it is has clearly fucked with his stomach.” 

Triss is nodding. “I didn’t remember any of the purification rituals for the Bind being toxic to humans in this way,” she says, turning away from Jaskier and going to shelf full of pots of herbs and flowering plants. She picks a handful of leaves that Geralt doesn’t recognise, tosses them in a mortar, adds a couple of pinches of brightly-coloured powders from a set of small ceramic jars, and starts to grind them together. 

“The bastards were experimenting, I think,” Yennefer says tightly. “Trying to make it stronger, more powerful. Something like that, fuck, I don’t know.” She’s quiet for a second. “I heard the mages talking,” she says as Triss transfers the paste to a small jar, pours in water, caps it, and shakes it vigorously, muttering something that sounds appropriately rhythmic under her breath. “I don’t think this was the first time they’d attempted the Bind. I guess they were trying to improve on the transmitted form of the ritual.” 

“Given that it’s a famously rubbish ritual, I’m not surprised,” Triss says, turning back to Jaskier. She glances up at Geralt. “Hold his head up,” she says. “I need to get as much of this down him as I can.” 

Geralt does as he’s told, and watches as Triss pours the now faintly glowing liquid down Jaskier’s throat. He still doesn’t stir, but the slow trickle of blood from his lips seems to be starting to slow. 

“Good,” Triss says, satisfied, and puts the jar aside. She pauses for a second, clearly thinking something over, then bends over Jaskier’s head, still held oh so carefully between Geralt’s hands, and carefully opens his mouth. Her mane of hair hides most of Jaskier’s face from view but Geralt doesn’t miss her sharp inhale, her muttered curse. “It’s well done,” she says, after a moment, and there’s a concern in her voice that she doesn’t bother to hide. “This could be a problem.” 

“ _What_ could be a problem?” Eskel snaps.

Triss straightens up. “Come see,” she says, and beckons Eskel closer. He approaches almost reluctantly, shooting Geralt a distrustful glance, but then he’s looking down, looking where Triss is pointing, _Geralt’s_ looking where Triss is pointing and, well.

Fury curdles white hot in Geralt’s gut. 

“What the fuck,” Eskel breathes. 

Geralt breathes slowly, carefully, cautiously. “We saw that sign,” he says, his words sounding like they’re coming from far away. “Ciri and I. It was marked on the ground in a clearing. White chalk.” 

Yennefer’s face blanches. “That was to be the site of the ritual,” she says, then smiles a bitter, sardonic smile that twists Geralt’s heart. “That was to be the site of our deaths.” 

“Can you remove it?” Geralt asks, teeth gritted. “From his tongue?” 

Triss watches him steadily. “I don’t know,” she answers. “There’s never been a recorded attempt at the Bind of Five, and there’s _definitely_ never been recorded survivors. If this was just a scar, I could heal it, yes, make it as if it was never there in the first place. But it’s not just a scar. It’s imbued with magic, with _power_. It’s a part of a ritual designed to bring immortal fame – that’s complicated magic, _dangerous_ magic.” 

“So, what?” Eskel chimes in, still pretty much holding Yennefer upright, anger blazing in his eyes. “He’s got that shit on his _tongue_ for the rest of his life?” 

“We can talk about this later,” Triss says, flat and firm. “And when he wakes, we may know more – but for now, I have work to do. That draught will have neutralised whatever poisons were lingering in his stomach and throat, but the blood indicates that there is still significant damage that requires my attention. I need peace so that I can concentrate, so I’m going to have to ask all of you to step outside.” 

“I’m not leaving him,” Geralt bites out immediately, a bare second before Eskel barks: “Like _fuck_ I’m doing that.” 

“ _Step outside_ ,” Triss says, and the tone of her voice makes it clear that it isn’t a request. “You brought strangers into my home. Go make sure that they’re settled. Go see to your horses. There’s food in the kitchen, drink. Alcohol, if you want. _Go_.”

Eskel doesn’t look impressed. “We’re not leaving him alone with you.”

“I know her,” Geralt says, catches Eskel’s eye. “I trust her. He’ll be safe.” 

Eskel doesn’t like it, Geralt can tell, but he acquiesces. That may have something to do with the fact that Yennefer is still using him as essentially a human walking stick, and Geralt knows all too well how… distracting it can be having that particular sorceress pressed up close. 

Triss’ hand lands on his forearm, squeezes gently. “He’ll be okay,” she says, quieter, as Eskel helps Yennefer out of the workroom. “And I’ll call you as soon as I need you, I promise.” 

Geralt nods. “Just help him,” he says, soft and almost pleading. 

Triss’ expression softens. “I will,” she says, and drops her hand. “Now go.” 

Geralt goes. 

Triss is with Jaskier in that tiny, herb-laden room for a long, long time. 

Eskel takes Yennefer to the living room, sits her down on one of the many sofas, then escapes to the forecourt, muttering something about dealing with the horses. Frankly, Geralt wants nothing more than to join him – but then he sees Ciri, sitting stiff and still on the edge of an overstuffed armchair next to the two other freed prisoners, fingers tight in the fabric of her trousers. He goes to her without a second thought, crouches down next to her, takes her hand in his and squeezes gently. “Ciri,” he says, soft, gentle. “Are you okay?” 

Ciri meets his gaze, nods. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m okay.” 

She’s definitely not okay, but Geralt was exposed to enough of her stubbornness over the winter that he knows he can’t just contradict her. “I’m going to see if there are rooms upstairs,” he says, taking her hand. “Come with me?” 

Ciri stares at their joined hands for a long moment, then nods, and goes with him. 

Geralt leaves Yennefer deep in soft conversation with the pregnant woman and the young Redanian, something about Jaskier, about Triss, about safety and loss, and goes upstairs with Ciri. He does actually want to know what’s up here—he’s hoping for bedrooms, but he would take anything with a clean floor and a roof—but the first room they step into, Ciri sags at his side, sits down heavily on the edge of the neatly-made bed, breathes in deeply just once, and starts to silently cry. 

Geralt sits next to her, gathers her into his arms, lets her bury her face in his shoulder and soak his shirt with her tears. He doesn’t speak for a while because he doesn’t really know what to say, just runs his hand through her hair, over and over, soothing, calm, then presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay.” 

Ciri doesn’t move. “I thought it would be exciting,” she whispers, fingers wrapping tighter in the front of his shirt, stained with Jaskier’s blood, damp with her tears. “I thought it would make me _happy_. I thought it was what I wanted.” Her nails dig so tight they bite his skin. “It was just pain and blood and death.” 

Geralt remembers the moment the idealism broke around his shoulders like rain. “You saved Jaskier’s life,” he says, little more than a rumble in his chest. “And you helped us break the mages’ shield. That’s more than just pain and blood and death.” 

Ciri’s quiet for a moment. “I threw the knife badly,” she says shortly. “I cut Jaskier’s cheek. I _hurt_ him.” 

“He’ll forgive you,” Geralt says. 

“How can you know?” 

Geralt doesn’t quite smile. “He loves you,” he says, and knows in his heart more than anything else that it’s true. “It would take more than a cut for him to withhold his forgiveness.” 

Ciri is silent for a long moment. She’s not crying anymore, yes, but there’s a heaviness to her silence that tells Geralt this isn’t over yet – so he just keeps doing what he’s doing, running his hand through her hair, working out the knots and tangles like Jaskier’s done for him a hundred times over the years, knowing how relaxing it feels, how soothing. Anything he can offer to help her, he’ll do it. Anything. 

“They hurt me,” Ciri says. 

Geralt forces his grip not to tighten, his hands not to clench. “They did.” 

“They hurt me,” Ciri repeats, slower, like she’s working it out for herself, “those mages, they hurt me because I stopped them from doing whatever it was they wanted to do with Yennefer and Jaskier. They didn’t know who I am, they weren’t interested in who I am. They just wanted to hurt me. To punish me." 

Geralt stays very, very still. “Yes,” he says. 

Ciri lets out a long breath and sits back, unwinds her hands from Geralt’s shirt. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face is puffy, tear-stained and exhausted, but she’s looking up at him with a keen look in her green eyes. “My grandmother,” she says, sharp and clear, “would have called them cunts.” 

Despite the gravity of the situation, Geralt can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Your grandmother would have been correct,” he says, and squeezes her hand. 

Ciri nods, smiles a little. “She usually was.” 

Geralt thinks about Calanthe for a moment, the last time he saw her, blustering and brutal and idiotically brave, to the last. “You should get some rest,” he says, and nods to the expanse of the bed they’re sitting on. “I’ll get your things, bring them up, but you stay here. Sleep.” 

Ciri nods, starts to reach for her boots, then pauses. “You’ll wake me if there’s any news about Jaskier?” she asks quietly. “Anything at all?” 

Geralt’s heart sits heavy and leaden in his chest. “Of course,” he says, then brushes the hair back off her forehead, briefly kisses her temple. “He’ll be fine, Ciri. Triss said he’d be fine, and she’s an excellent healer.” 

Ciri doesn’t answer, but Geralt can see in her eyes how much she wants to believe him. 

Geralt finds Eskel outside, rubbing Llwyd down with movements that are so smooth and rhythmic that they border on the meditative. There’s a small stable in the corner of the forecourt that Geralt is pretty sure wasn’t there when they came stumbling out of that damn portal, but he’s not about to complain about the hospitality of sorceresses so he just goes to Roach, runs his fingers down her long nose, feeds her an apple he took from Triss’ kitchen. 

Eskel is still covered in the remnants of Jaskier’s blood. 

“Thank you,” Geralt says, unstrapping the saddlebags from Roach’s back. “For keeping him safe.” 

Eskel glances back at him. “You don’t need to thank me for that,” he answers, his voice a little gruffer than usual – and all of a sudden he laughs sharply, shakes his head, bitterness flooding through his face. “I thought the worst I’d ever see him was when you turned up at Kaer Morhen and promptly decided it was a good idea to start fucking everything up.” Geralt winces, his fingers tightening involuntarily in Roach’s mane. “But I was wrong,” Eskel says, unheeding or maybe just uncaring. “Seeing him like that, bloody and _dying?_ That’s worse. That’s a fucking thousand times worse.” He shakes his head, shoulders hunched and tight. “ _Humans_. They’re so fucking _fragile_ , Geralt, how can you stand it?” 

Geralt’s smile is bitter. “Most of the time, I can’t.” 

Eskel looks up at him, then laughs thickly. “True,” he says. “Hence the whole fucking-everything-up gambit. I forgot.” He sighs, leans heavily against Llwyd’s shoulder. “You sure this new witch of yours will help him?” 

“She’s saved my life before.” 

“Yeah, but the difference is that Jaskier’s life is actually _worth saving_ ,” Eskel points out, brash and unfunny and borderline cruel, thick with pointed humour. It’s exactly what Geralt needs right now. “Sure, okay, you trust her to remember which way to stitch your ugly head back on, big deal. But what about a fucking mortal bard who’s for some godsforsaken reason decided it’s a great idea to follow a witcher around? Can she fix _him_?” 

“In my defence,” Geralt says, as mild as he can manage, “this fucking nightmare was actually nothing to do with me, for once. They wanted _Jaskier_ , not me.”

Eskel snorts. “Just don’t tell him that when he wakes up,” he grumbles. “It’ll make his head even bigger than it already is.” 

“Not really sure that’s possible.” 

“If anyone could manage it, he could,” Eskel says. “He has a rare talent for making himself the centre of attention.” He gestures towards the house. “Like now! Two sorceresses, two witchers, a princess, and a couple of traumatised innocent bystanders, and who are we all fussing over? The damn _bard_.” 

Geralt hums. “Yen’s talking to the other two prisoners,” he says. “We should try to figure out what to do with them.” 

Eskel sighs. “We can’t exactly just dump them back where they came from in Redania,” he says. “Not with that Aldebraan arsehole still hanging around, not if he’s still after them. But they don’t exactly look like the wandering nomad type. And I’m guessing they can’t just stay here.” 

Geralt’s jaw spasms tight. “That’s assuming that Aldebraan lives.”

Eskel raises an eyebrow. “You planning on going back for another go at the prize?” he asks, soft and dangerous. “Because if you are, Geralt, I’m going to need you to take me with you. I’m _really_ going to need that, shit, I want to punch that bastard’s face in _so very badly_.” 

“If I go,” Geralt says, shaking his head, “I’ll need to take either Yen or Triss with me, for the portal. Which means that there won’t be as much firepower here as there should be, so I’ll need you to stay here to protect Jaskier and Ciri.” 

Eskel’s expression tightens. “I’m not a fucking nursemaid, Geralt.” 

“No, you’re my friend,” Geralt answers. “You’re Ciri’s friend, you’re _Jaskier’s_ friend. I trust you. More importantly, I trust you to make sure that they’re safe.” 

“Fuck you, Geralt,” Eskel says, but there’s no real heat behind it. 

They get the horses settled down with hay and rest and an environment that, with any luck, isn’t about to erupt into bloodshed and violence, and then they go back inside. Yennefer and the two other prisoners have migrated from the living room to the kitchen, and the three of them are sitting around the solid oak table with what looks like the entire contents of Triss’ pantry strewn out in front of them: breads and meats, vegetables and fresh fruit, a pile of pastries high as Yennefer’s shoulder, with mugs of ale and a pitcher of wine that smells like a particularly fine vintage of Est Est. Geralt puts together a plate for Ciri, takes it upstairs to her along with her bag, but the girl is already fast asleep when he gets there so he just leaves his burdens quietly next to her bed. He presses another soft kiss to her forehead, tucks the blankets tighter around her, then goes back down to the feast in the kitchen.

Eskel shoves a seat towards him, halfway through a mouthful of chicken, and Geralt sits. Yennefer passes him a plate and a mug. “How is she?” she asks, her voice still hoarse, still soft, but getting stronger. 

“Sleeping,” Geralt answers, filling his plate. “She’ll be okay.” 

Yennefer nods, and Geralt knows that she’ll go make her own assessment of that later, will sit at Ciri’s bedside and whisper to her in her sleep, tuck stray wisps of hair behind her ears and smooth the blankets out at her side, but for now, his answer is enough. “This,” Yennefer says, pointing at the pregnant woman at her side, “is Miria. And this is Darryn.” The Redanian ducks his head at Geralt, tries for a smile. “They’re both from villages within twenty miles of Aldebraan’s fortress. Once Aldebraan has been dealt with, we’ll take them home.” 

Miria offers Geralt a smile. “We owe you our lives, sir witcher,” she says, her voice surprisingly lyrical. “I only wish that there was some way for us to repay you.” 

Geralt’s first instinct is to point out that, actually, he didn’t intend to save them at all, but Eskel speaks first which is probably for the best. “There’s no need for payment, not for this,” he says, shaking his head, then smiles a crooked smile. “Only remember us, and if we’re ever passing through your home in the future, offer us a hot meal and a roof over our heads.” 

Darryn, however, is intent on Yennefer. “What do you mean, ‘dealt with’?” he asks, a coiling tension in his voice that Geralt recognises. “Are you going to go back for him? Kill him?” 

Yennefer meets Geralt’s gaze across the table, hard and furious. “After what he did to us?” she says, one eyebrow raised. “After what he did to _Jaskier_? I think a slow and painful death is the least he deserves.” 

Geralt can’t say he disagrees. 

“When?” Darryn asks, full of heat and fire. “ _When?_ ” 

Yennefer’s lips quirk in a cruel smile. “I’ll be strong enough by the morning,” she says, and cocks her head at Geralt, then glances to Eskel. “I assume you two will be coming with me?” 

“Geralt will,” Eskel says, an annoyed set to his lips. “I have to stay here and babysit the bard.” 

Yennefer’s smile falls, just a little, and she fixes Geralt with a peculiar stare that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. “Wouldn’t you prefer to stay with Jaskier yourself, Geralt?” she asks, a frown creasing her forehead. “What if he wakes up and you’re not here?” 

Geralt’s jaw is tight. “I left him unprotected once,” he says, fingers curling tighter around a piece of bread, twisting it in the palm of his hand, “and that man took him, and hurt him. I won’t let that happen again. He’ll be safe with Eskel and Triss. So will Ciri. And I am going to make sure that this Aldebraan doesn’t get a chance to hurt him _ever again_.” 

Yennefer studies him a moment longer. “In the morning, then,” she says, and takes a sip of wine. 

Geralt nods, and drops his gaze.

The day drags on, long and slow. 

Once they’ve effectively destroyed the feast set out on Triss’ kitchen table, Miria announces that she’s exhausted and she’s going to go get some sleep. Darryn goes upstairs with her, and the next time Geralt goes upstairs to check on Ciri, he can hear two sets of snoring coming from behind two different doors. Yennefer stays awake a little longer, and Geralt helps her draw a bath so she can wash the grime and grease off her skin. She spends a good hour in the steaming-hot water, occasionally getting Geralt to bring it back to temperature with a well-aimed blast of Igni, and when Eskel sticks his head around the door to ask what the fuck they’ve been doing in here for so long, he gets an eyeful and promptly bolts. 

Yennefer laughs at that, rich and sincere. “And who exactly is this other witcher that you’ve brought me to play with?” 

“His name’s Eskel,” Geralt says. 

“Yes, I gathered that,” Yennefer says, sardonic. 

“We ran into him in Berrygrove,” Geralt says. “He was coming to find me and Jaskier – we mentioned we were meeting you there before we left Kaer Morhen.” 

“That’s a piece of luck,” Yennefer says, swirling her fingertips through the surface of her bathwater. “So does that mean that you took my advice, and took Jaskier with you to your crumbling witcher keep?” 

“He was already there when I got there,” Geralt says, looking down at his hands. “Eskel brought him.” 

He’s not even _looking_ at her and he can feel the weight of her disbelieving stare. “Eskel did,” she says flatly. 

Geralt shrugs. “Eskel likes Jaskier.” 

“I’m sure he does,” Yennefer says archly. She pauses for a second, silence rich and thoughtful, then says, “Is there a reason you didn’t mention the bard in your letters, Geralt? Why you didn’t tell me that you’d actually taken my advice and finally stopped fucking around and ignoring your very obvious feelings for him?” 

“Letters can be intercepted,” Geralt says shortly, brusquely. “Everything we wrote was in coded language, Yen, and we didn’t exactly agree a code for _I’m fucking Jaskier now_. Didn’t want to put him in danger.” 

Yen’s eyes spark. “I’m so _very_ tempted to ask for a point by point comparison,” she murmurs, “but I know that that would be fairly likely to make your head explode, so I won’t.” She studies him a moment longer. “And was I right?” 

Geralt knows what she’s asking. 

In that little cottage in the woods before Geralt took Ciri to Kaer Morhen, that rustic bower surrounded by the fading autumn leaves and the first cold breaths of winter, Yennefer looked at him, once, face shadowed in the light of the dying fire, and said, “We don’t make each other happy, Geralt. We make each other mad with jealousy and we make each other scream with ecstasy, but we don’t make each other happy – and I think we both deserve a chance to be happy, don’t you?” 

It hurt to hear in such blunt words, but Geralt knew then and knows now that she was right. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, all those months ago, and Geralt can still remember the pain that twisted his chest at the name. “Your damn bard, Geralt. I’d wager good money that he makes you happy – or at least, he could, if you’d let him.” 

Geralt shook his head, firm and angry. “Not Jaskier,” he said. “Can’t risk him like that. He’s human.” 

Yennefer’s eyes were bright and knowing in the dark autumn evening. “I don’t think that’s a choice you get to make for him,” she said. “And, anyway – I’m not sure it’s _him_ that you’re worried about getting hurt.” 

Geralt remembers just staring at the fire, after that, ignoring her words, ignoring her attempts at conversation and then just going to bed, tired and wracked with loss and full of too much emotion for him to ever attempt to parse. 

“Geralt?” Yennefer asks, reclining in her bath like a queen. 

“You were right,” Geralt says, soft and sacred. 

“I’m always right,” Yennefer observes, bitingly keen, and sinks deeper into the bath.

There’s a knock at the door, too light to be Eskel, and Geralt’s heart leaps in his chest as Triss enters. She looks tired, bruised circles under her eyes and lethargy in the line of her shoulders, but she smiles at him reassuringly. “He’s going to be okay,” she says. “He’s just sleeping, now.” 

Geralt’s on his feet. “Where?” 

Triss’ smile is knowing. “I’ll take you to him.”

Jaskier is laid out in a large, ornate four-poster bed, all the blood gone, all the pain wiped away. His face is still a little pale—massive blood loss will do that to a mortal man, Geralt knows—and he looks small and insignificant against the richness of his surroundings. Geralt goes to him without a second thought, without caring that Triss is in the room with him, goes to him and sits next to him, touches his hand, his cheek, his hair, feels his warmth, hears his heartbeat, listens to the slow, constant rush of his breathing. 

He’s going to be fine. 

“I don’t know how long he’ll sleep,” Triss says, pressing a light touch to Geralt’s shoulder. “Could be a few hours. Could be until tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay with him, Geralt, just try not to move him. He’s still healing.” 

Geralt nods. “Thank you,” he says, throaty and hoarse, and he knows that he should look up at her, should acknowledge her presence, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the soft rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest, unbloodied, unblemished. 

“You’re welcome,” Triss answers, and leaves him. 

Geralt doesn’t move from Jaskier’s side until the bright rays of the next day’s dawn start to break through the windowpanes. Eskel spends a few hours with them, quiet and solid, and so does Ciri, her eyes filling with tears all over again. Even Yennefer comes for a little while, something unacknowledged and painful in her eyes. When they’re there, Geralt catches a few hours of meditation, enough to keep him sharp, keep him alert, but when Eskel goes to sleep and takes Ciri with him, when Yennefer kisses Geralt lightly on the cheek and leaves, when Geralt is alone with Jaskier’s sleeping body it’s all he can do to remember to keep breathing. 

Jaskier’s face is still and unlined in sleep. 

In the morning, Yennefer comes to him, Eskel at her side. “Have you changed your mind?” she asks, an open question, a way out. 

Geralt thinks about the blaze of fire with Jaskier trapped on the other side, about blood spilling from Jaskier’s lips, about the blade at Jaskier’s throat. “No,” he says hoarsely, and gets to his feet. “Eskel?”

Eskel takes his position. “I know,” is all he says. “I’ve got him.” 

Geralt nods, and meets Yennefer’s gaze. There’s fire there, fire and fury, and they might not be lovers anymore, might not be tangled up in each other like he wants to spend the rest of his life tangled up in Jaskier, but in this, he trusts her more than he trusts anyone else. 

Yennefer’s answering smile is cruel. “Get your swords,” she says. “I believe we have a monster to kill.” 

Jaskier dozes in and out of wakefulness for a long time, only catching snatches of the world around him. 

Clean sheets are the first thing he notices, and then the sweet, comforting smell of chamomile and vanilla, presumably some kind of soap. Warm sunlight comes next, soothing against his skin. It takes him a surprisingly long time to consciously acknowledge that he’s not in pain any more, which is a pleasant realisation, and he takes a moment to consider it carefully, looking at it from every angle. No pain, warm sunlight, clean sheets. 

Is he safe? 

Jaskier cracks open his eyes, just a little, just enough to get a glimpse before he’s drifting back down to the soft, warm darkness. The bed looks safe enough, expensive thread counts, multiple pillows, and springtime sunlight fills the air. He blinks at the dustmotes dancing above his head for a little while, trying to make a pattern out of their irregularity, then slowly realises that there’s someone else with him, sitting at his side, solid and reassuring and steady. 

He licks his lips, tries to speak. “Geralt?” 

“Hey, Jaskier,” Eskel says, relief thick in his voice. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. Just sleep, yeah? Geralt will be back soon.” 

But he’s not here now? 

Jaskier closes his eyes, feeling the dark, restfulness of sleep wrapping around him once again, and the last thing he remembers is the strangely bitter taste of disappointment, slicked across the back of his scarred tongue.


	8. Chapter 8

“What do you mean, they’re _gone_?” 

The washerwoman fixes Geralt and Yennefer with a stern look, completely unfazed by the fact that there’s an angry sorceress and a witcher armed to the teeth staring her down. “I mean exactly what I said, missy,” she says, dunking another worn shirt in the stream a few minutes’ walk away from Aldebraan’s castle – the castle that, as they’ve already discovered, is _empty_ , echoing corridors and dusty halls, deserted kitchens, abandoned dungeons. “From maybe midday yesterday, there were people streaming out of that castle, going in all kinds of directions. Some of the staff, well, they’re local folk, so they went back to their homes in the area – my boy Petrush, he was a stablehand, he turned up on my doorstep with his things in a kerchief. As for the others?” She shrugs, pulls the shirt out of the stream and starts to wring it out. “Those soldiers, I heard tell that they split up, some marching off over the hills, others going off towards the south, every which way by the sounds of it.” 

“And Aldebraan?” Yennefer insists, her hands clenched into fists at her side. “What about him?” 

The washerwoman shrugs. “How should I know?” she says. “Gone like the rest of them. Don’t ask me where.” 

Geralt looks back up towards the castle, stark and staring against the midmorning light. They _scoured_ that place from top to bottom, searching for signs of life, for habitation, for _people_ , but all they found were broken plates in the kitchens and a few dented pieces of armour in the barracks. The rest of it? Abandoned, deserted, _empty_. 

“How can a whole castle full of people just… _leave?_ ” Yennefer snaps. 

The washerwoman gives her another stern look, then turns back to her basket of dirty linens. “Nothing more to tell you, missy,” she says. “You can get your man there to wave his swords around all you like, I can’t tell you things I don’t know.” 

“Yennefer,” Geralt says, and beckons her away. 

Yennefer looks like she wants to argue for a moment, but then she acquiesces and follows Geralt a little further down the road. “They can’t just be _gone_ ,” she hisses when they’re out of earshot of the washerwoman. “That woman must be a simpleton or a fool – a whole castle full of people can’t just vanish, that isn’t possible.” 

“We’ve searched the castle,” Geralt says, and he doesn’t like it as much as she does, doesn’t like the idea of that rich bastard being out there, being able to harm other people, but anger isn’t going to get them anywhere right now. “What she says is backed up by what we found in there. It doesn’t matter how possible or impossible we think it is – it’s the truth.”

Yennefer shakes her head. “It’s a glamour,” she says. “An illusion, it must be.” 

“You killed the mages,” Geralt says. “And neither of us could feel any magic in that place.” 

“So what?” Yennefer spits. “He just… _ran away?_ ” 

Geralt shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “Once he found out that you were free, I doubt he wanted to hang around so you could come back and murder him.” 

Yennefer snarls. “My reputation does proceed me,” she says, short and snappy. “So we track him down. There are multiple tracks leading away from this place, and they have a head start on us – maybe a day’s worth. With fast horses, that’s a lot of distance to make up, but if we act quickly, portal back to Triss, fetch horses…” She trails off, nodding to herself. “We can make up a lot of time,” she says decisively. “And I’m sure we can figure out between the two of us which path Aldebraan himself would have taken – probably one with a large group of soldiers, and some of the tracks _definitely_ looked denser than others, so we can—” 

“Yen,” Geralt interrupts. 

Her eyes flash. “What?” 

“We can’t follow,” Geralt says. 

“You don’t get to decide that, Geralt,” Yennefer answers, icy-cold. 

“I do,” Geralt says, and he hates having to say it, he really does, hates the cold reality that’s clawing at his heart, the _fear_ – but they’re too late. The castle is deserted, the little hamlet around its walls is deserted, and it might have only been a day or so ago that it was teeming with life but now there is _nothing there_. And whoever emptied it clearly knew what they were doing: there are too many tracks to follow, too many possibilities for two people to follow – and, the thing is, Yennefer knows all of this as well. “We can’t find him, Yen. Not without spending the next however many fucking weeks following _every_ trail, following _every_ lead. Even if we got Eskel and Triss to help, it’s not enough.” 

There’s fire in her violet eyes. “You’d let him live?” she asks, taught and angry. “After what that fucker did to your bard, you’d let him live?” 

Geralt thinks about Jaskier, small and pale against the bedsheets, small and pale and _alive_. “There’s not a chance in all _hell_ that I’ll let him touch Jaskier ever again,” he says, trying to keep his voice level, trying not to let the quorl of fear that’s nestled deep in his stomach flow up and over and out. “But there’s a fucking war on, Yennefer, if you hadn’t forgotten – a war where Nilfgaard is _still_ looking for Ciri, and probably the rest of us as well. We can’t spend months tracking Aldebraan down, not when we’re in such a fucking precarious position as it is already.” 

Yennefer’s face falls, and Geralt knows that she’s heard him. “Fuck,” she bites out, and then again: “ _Fuck!_ ” 

“Yen…” 

“I’m going to kill him,” she says, no question, no question at all. “I don’t care how long it takes, how many fucking years, I will find him and I will kill him for what he did to us. And not just to me and Jaskier, but to Miria and Darryn as well – and to that fucking _elf_ , whatever his name was.” Her hands are fists, her hair is wild in the springtime breeze. “But not today,” she says after a long, tense moment. “ _Fuck_. Not today.” 

Geralt nods, reaches out, grips her arm. “Not today,” he agrees. “But we will.” 

Yennefer just stares at him for a long moment, jaw set, eyes wild. “Very well,” she says, voice clipped, and then she pulls her arm out of his grasp, stalks a few paces further away, back along the winding road towards the castle. She stands there for a moment, head cocked to one side, considering, then glances back at him over her shoulder. “Just in case we missed him hiding in a cupboard somewhere,” she says, a nasty sneer twisting her lips, and then she raises her hands and the ground groans beneath Geralt’s feet. 

Geralt faintly hears the washerwoman bite off a surprised curse, even more faintly hears the pant of Yennefer’s breath, but that’s all wiped away by the colossal scratching, screeching, groaning, breaking, crashing of the earth opening up and swallowing that ugly, ugly castle whole. The spell leaves a rent in the earth right at the roots of the hills, deep and jagged, and the waters of the lake rush to fill the gap, foaming and roaring with all the implacable anger of nature – and within a few minutes, there’s no sign that the castle was ever there in the first place.

Yennefer isn’t even breathing particularly hard.

“Hey!” 

Geralt glances over his shoulder to see the washerwoman hurtling towards them, her skirts hiked up around her knees, fury in her expression. “Hey, you two!” she calls again, practically _furious_. “What are you doing? You’ve fucked up my stream!” 

Geralt really doesn’t want to be chided by a washerwoman like a child. “Portal?” he suggests. 

“Portal,” Yennefer agrees, and conjures one with a casual sweep of her hand. “Sorry about your stream!” she calls to the washerwoman, still storming down the path in their direction, then she tugs Geralt through and they’re back in Triss’ forecourt, the Temerian air warm and balmy around them. 

The portal snaps shut behind them. 

Geralt doesn’t miss the barely-concealed fury in Yennefer’s eyes. “Yen,” he tries again, not entirely sure where he’s going with this but knowing he has to try. “You know—”

“Stop,” Yennefer interrupts before he has a chance to get any further. “Whatever you’re about to say, I know. Whatever you think I know, I know. Just…” She grits her teeth. “Just go sit by your bard’s sickbed until he wakes, Geralt. Leave me be.” 

There’s a gap between them, now, a void that they once filled with soft touches and desperate kisses. Geralt wants to go to her, to hold her, to _help_ her, but at the same time she says _your bard’s sickbed_ and all he can think about Jaskier, pale and wan, stretched out and small beneath the covers, Jaskier stirring and waking and coming back to consciousness _without Geralt at his side._

A sudden sickness curls in Geralt’s heart. 

“You’ll be okay?” he asks, gruff and short. 

“I’ll be fine,” Yennefer says, jaw tight, shoulders firm. “Go. Jaskier needs you.” 

Geralt goes. He doesn’t bother stopping to drop off his swords and his armour, just goes straight to Jaskier’s room – and his heart is beating harder in his chest than it has been all morning, because the whole reason he left was so that Jaskier would be _safe_ , that the man who took him and victimised him would never be able to do it again, and now all that’s happened is that Geralt left him and Geralt _failed_. It’s almost a fucked-up kind of relief when he opens the door to find Jaskier’s eyes still closed, lax back against the pillows, but then Eskel looks up at him, says, “Hey, Geralt,” with the kind of sigh that he’s been perfecting since before they went through the Trials, and Jaskier’s eyes are opening and, oh, shit. 

Geralt abruptly realises that he may have fucked up again. 

Jaskier’s face crumples into a smile. “Geralt,” he says, struggling to sit up. “Hey.” 

Geralt’s by his side almost quicker than thinking, pressing him gently back down into the pillows. “Don’t move too much,” he says, sitting heavily on the side of the bed, only half-aware that he’s getting dust and dirt all over Triss’ clean white sheets. “You were in a bad way.” 

“Triss says I nearly died,” Jaskier says brightly, in that irritatingly optimistic way that only Jaskier can. 

“She’s been by to check him over,” Eskel interjects, on his feet, now, and leaning against the bottom bedpost. “Says he’s fine, but also told him in no uncertain terms to stay in bed. And no strenuous activity, so, you know, Geralt. Keep your hands to yourself.” 

Jaskier snorts. “For someone who regularly complains about it when I smell of sex,” he says cheerfully, “you really do involve yourself in my sex life quite a lot, Eskel.” 

Eskel rolls his eyes. “I’m leaving now,” he says flatly, then points at Jaskier. “You, don’t break yourself. And you?” He shifts the pointing finger to Geralt. “At least take your damn swords off before you start climbing into bed with him, okay?” 

“Go away, Eskel,” Geralt rumbles. 

Eskel mutters something that involves the words ‘ungrateful’ and ‘idiots’, and leaves the room. The door closes behind him with a soft click and then they’re alone, just the two of them, breaths intermingled and heartbeats layered over one another – and Geralt realises with a start that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since Kaer Morhen. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says before he can let his teeming thoughts catch up with his tongue. “For leaving you.” 

Jaskier blinks. “I told you to go, Geralt,” he says gently. “There was no way through, and you had no way of knowing that they weren’t after Ciri.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “Not then,” he says, reaches out, takes Jaskier’s hand and laces their fingers together. “I should have been here when you woke up.” 

Jaskier’s smile drops, just for a moment. “What’s this?” he asks, softer, full of affection. “Self-awareness? And _empathy_?” He squints at Geralt. “Are you really Geralt of Rivia? Or are you some magical doppelgänger come to spirit me away?” 

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier laughs quietly. “Eskel told me you went with Yennefer to kill the bastard who tried to murder us all,” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that Geralt doesn’t like. “Seems like a good enough reason to leave me.” 

“There’s no good reason to leave you,” Geralt says, instinctive and truthful, and he’s thinking about that godsdamned mountaintop, now, the wind in his hair and cruel, biting words on his tongue. “There’s _never_ a good reason to leave you.” 

Jaskier shushes him, tugs at his hand, pulls him closer, kisses him with surety. “It’s okay,” he says, then kisses him again, deeper. “I get it. You and Yennefer, you had a job to do. Nasty people to kill, it’s okay, I get it.” Another kiss, longer, softer. “You don’t have to apologise for that, Geralt.” 

There’s nothing Geralt wants to do more than lose himself in those kisses, to just give himself over to the dwindling remnants of the crushing terror that’s been heavy in his heart for _days_ now, to wrap himself around Jaskier and hold him close and keep him safe – but something isn’t right. Jaskier isn’t right, because Geralt might not be the best when it comes to emotional intelligence, no, he knows he isn’t, he’s far too repressed and damaged and reticent, but he knows Jaskier, knows his highs and his lows, the furrows of his forehead and the twitches of his fingers. He knows when he’s kissing because he wants to kiss, and when he’s kissing to _distract._

Geralt rests his forehead against Jaskier’s, breathing the same air. “You needed me,” he says, quiet and pausing, “and I wasn’t here.” 

He hears the breath hitch in Jaskier’s throat. “Sounds like Yennefer needed you, too,” he says, a crack in his voice that he tries to hide. “Although, you know, what could she need from anyone? She’s sort of incredible, even without all her magic. She killed four, maybe five men when we were in those cells, I can’t remember the exact number, it was when I was all drugged and messed up.” 

“You needed me,” Geralt repeats. “You needed me to be _here_ , and I _left_.” 

Jaskier’s lips twist. “You sure we’re not just talking about the whole me getting kidnapped by mysterious soldiers thing again?” he asks, forcibly jovial. “Because I thought we’d dealt with that already. No one’s fault, no hard feelings, it’s all _fine_.” 

Geralt sits back, thigh still pressed to Jaskier’s, fingers still entwined. “Jaskier.” 

Jaskier tilts his head, almost defiant. “Yes, Geralt?” 

“Tell me what I did wrong,” Geralt says, and the words are so fucking _hard_ to get out. His lips are dry, his mouth is clammy. “Whatever I fucked up, tell me so I can fix it.” 

Jaskier’s eyes are so very blue, so very bright, and there’s a part of Geralt that wants him to shy away from the question, wants that limpid gaze to dip, to duck, to avoid and reject. That would be easier, really, if they hid from the hurt. That would be simpler. 

It’s what Geralt’s done for so many fucking years, after all. 

Jaskier licks his lips, gaze level, eyes keen. “You wrote to Yennefer,” he says, little more than a whisper. “Over the winter. Sent the letters off from Kaer Morhen.” 

Geralt nods. “I did,” he says, and remembers quiet mornings in the keep, Jaskier stretched out in their bed, naked and dozing, hair mussed and messy with sleep and sex. “You watched me write half of them.” – and then he remembers Yennefer’s question, just yesterday, as they ran. “You’re asking me why I never told her about you?” He fumbles. “About – us?” 

Jaskier’s chin tilts higher. “Now that you put it like that, it makes me sound like a jealous spouse,” he says – and there’s light-hearted offence in his tone, yes, but Geralt can smell the pain that he’s trying to suppress, the _fear_. 

“Yennefer asked me the same question,” Geralt says. “I told her that it was in case the letters got intercepted, that it was to keep you safe.” 

Jaskier nods, drops his gaze to their joined hands. “Makes sense,” he says faintly. “Lots of spies. Nilfgaard, you know. Did I mention that they tried to kidnap me twice?” 

“That isn’t why,” Geralt interrupts. 

Jaskier frowns at him. “It isn’t?” 

“No.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot skywards. “Did you _lie_ to _Yennefer_?” 

Geralt makes a noise of exasperation. “I didn’t _tell_ her,” he says, “because it’s none of her _business_.” 

Jaskier looks confused. “From what she told me, you talked to her about me before you came to Kaer Morhen,” he says softly. “It’s not like she would have been _surprised_.” 

Geralt lets out a frustrated breath. “That’s not the point,” he says, his fingers wrapping tighter around Jaskier’s – but he’s no good with fucking _words_ , not like Jaskier is, shit, and historically most of the times he’s tried to _express_ himself with words have just gone monumentally badly. Like on the mountain after the dragon hunt. Like that first night in Kaer Morhen at the eastern wall. Like _now_.

“Hey,” Jaskier says, his voice soft, and Geralt abruptly realises that his fingers are stroking soothing patterns across the back of Geralt’s hand. “Hey, Geralt, it’s okay.” – and this time, Geralt knows, it is okay. “What was the point?” Jaskier asks, careful and gentle. 

Geralt just breathes. “This is _ours_ ,” he says eventually, focusing on the soft brush of Jaskier’s fingertips, on the slow whisper of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart. “You, me, all of this. It’s ours, it belongs to us. It’s no one else’s, and no one else has a right to it. No one else gets a say.” He huffs out a breath, frustrated, because the words aren’t coming out the way he wants them to. “Eskel got involved at Kaer Morhen, and I talked to Yennefer about you. But that doesn’t mean it’s _theirs_. That doesn’t mean they have a right to _know._ ” He frowns. “And I don’t want to keep it a secret, that’s not it. Tell whoever the fuck you want, I don’t care. I just—” He cuts himself off, fights back a snarl, stares determinedly at the bedsheets so he doesn’t have to see the inevitable disappointment in Jaskier’s eyes. “You’re important to me,” he says, slow and deliberate. “ _This_ is important to me, this relationship. And I don’t need to share it with anyone who isn’t you.” 

Jaskier is silent for a long moment, and all Geralt can think is the tremor in Jaskier’s hands when he pushed him away, that first night in Kaer Morhen, when Geralt lunged forward and kissed him because it was the only thing he could think to do, when Geralt crushed their lips together and Jaskier made a little noise of protest and then pushed him away, his heart beating like a jackrabbit. 

Geralt is very good at fucking things up. 

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and there’s no hatred in his voice, no anger, no hurt. “Come here.” He pulls Geralt towards him, leans forward to meet him, and then Jaskier’s kissing him, not as a distraction this time, no, Geralt thinks that this kiss might be forgiveness. Jaskier runs his hands through Geralt’s hair, soft and familiar, and then presses their foreheads together, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “You,” Jaskier says, a laugh in his voice, “are a beautiful, brilliant, ridiculous man, and I love you more than you could possibly know.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, because it feels like it needs to be said, and then, “I won’t leave you ever again.” 

“I should fucking hope not,” Jaskier says, then the humour drops from his voice. “I know you want to protect me, Geralt, I know that’s why you ran off to go hunt down that fucked-up fucker and put your lovely sword through his heart – but sometimes I just need you to be here when I wake up, you know?” 

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t,” he says, then stops, tries again. “When we got there, Aldebraan was gone.” 

Jaskier stiffens. “What do you mean, gone?” 

“The castle was empty,” Geralt says. “No one there, not even the servants. Tracks indicated that a lot of people left in a hurry.” 

Jaskier pulls away, fear written unmistakable in his eyes. “So he got away?” he asks, voice rough. “The bastard who had me kidnapped and branded and who was going to murder me, he got away?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, his teeth gritted, and he pulls Jaskier close, tries to reassure him, tries to convince him with the heat of his body and the stability of his hands that he’s safe, that Geralt won’t let anyone touch him ever, _ever_ again. 

Jaskier’s fingers grip tight at the front of Geralt’s armour. “I’ve changed my mind,” he says, clearly trying to stop his voice from shaking. “I don’t need you to be here with me. I need you to go with your sorceress and your big scary swords, go and find him and kill him. Take Eskel with you, too, he’s handy in a pinch. Fuck, Triss and Ciri as well, Ciri’s as stabby as the next witcher-princess and Triss must be able to do some useful the-opposite-of-healing magic.” 

“He won’t touch you again,” Geralt interrupts before Jaskier’s panicked rambling can get too frantic. “I swear.” 

Jaskier flashes him a lopsided smile. “And I’m guessing by the fact that you’re here and not still out there that there’s not much of a chance of you actually finding him any time soon?” 

Geralt shakes his head. 

“I’m going to need you to not leave me alone for the rest of my life,” Jaskier says, the sour note of fear rich in his scent. “You know that, right? _The rest of my life_.” 

“That was the plan anyway.” 

Jaskier laughs and squeezes his hand. “There you go again,” he says, almost fond. “Saying things that are just unreasonably poetic in your own witchery way.” He reaches out, pushes a lock of hair away from Geralt’s eyes, and smiles a tired smile. “And as lovely as this conversation is, I think I’m going to need to sleep again. Turns out that Triss might have been right about the nearly-dying thing, and I’ll tell you, it is _exhausting_.” 

Geralt nods, releases Jaskier’s hand, and gets to his feet. 

A sad kind of understanding flickers through Jaskier’s eyes. “Can I ask that you’ll come back for when I wake up?” he asks. “I know you’ll have things to do, I know you’re busy – but as lovely as Eskel is, I’ve been held captive in a horrible piss-smelling cell for the past few days so I’d really quite like to wake up to your face next time.” 

Geralt unstraps his swords, sheds his armour with practiced movements, strips off his boots and his trousers and his shirt, then slides under the blankets and pulls Jaskier into his arms. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs against the cautious smile on Jaskier’s lips, then kisses him, one hand in his hair, the other wrapped tight around his waist. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.” 

Jaskier kisses him, deep and long, and for the first time Geralt feels the raised scarring on his tongue, a mark, a reminder. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, eyes shining bright, so bright. Jaskier shoves Geralt down a little further, pushes and prods him until he’s positioned just how he wants him, and then Jaskier settles himself, his head on Geralt’s chest, their legs entangled, Jaskier’s hand flat and warm against Geralt’s hip. His eyelids are drooping already, his breathing stretching, slowly, and Geralt runs his hand through his hair over and over, over and over, until he’s asleep. 

Jaskier’s breathing is steady and quiet, and his eyes flutter beneath his eyelids as he dreams. 

Tiredness is sunk deep into Geralt’s bones. He hasn’t slept in days, hasn’t slept _properly_ since long before then, and he’s fought and run and hurt too much to be at his best – but he can’t sleep, not now, not with Jaskier so fragile and so breakable in his arms. He can’t risk him like that, can’t risk _losing_ him like that, not again, and so he lies there against the headboard, eyes open, forcing himself to stay awake, fighting the exhaustion that’s creeping into the corners of his vision. 

Geralt breathes, and listens to the steady thump of Jaskier’s heart. 

He doesn’t know how long has passed when the door is cracked quietly open and Eskel comes padding in, his footsteps quieter than any human’s. He smiles with open affection when he sees them, then shuts the door behind him and comes to sit in the chair next to the bed. “Here,” he says in a whisper, handing Geralt a piece of cheese. “Eat something, then get some rest. I’ll stay, make sure no one comes bursting in through the window to steal him away from you.” 

Geralt’s too tired to protest. He eats the cheese, drinks the cup of water that Eskel passes him afterwards, then lets himself settle back into the pillows, eyes sliding shut. 

He hears Eskel huff a soft laugh to himself. “Fools, the pair of you,” he says. 

Geralt hums. “Fuck off, Eskel,” he murmurs, and drifts off to the sound of Eskel’s chuckle.

Jaskier wakes to a familiar off-key humming and a warm, solid body under his hands. He stays still for a little while, eyes closed, half-convinced that this is some kind of dream, but then the humming shifts to a quiet whistling that’s enthusiastic but a little grating on his Oxenfurt-trained ears, if he’s honest, so he wrinkles his nose, buries his face deeper in Geralt’s chest. “Eskel,” he says, voice a little throaty. “If you’re going to butcher _The Merry Maids of Nilfgaard_ like that, can you maybe do it somewhere I’m not trying to sleep?” 

Eskel snorts. “You’re all talk, bard. If you’re so offended by my singing, why don’t you teach me to do better?” 

Jaskier raises his head and opens his eyes. Eskel’s perched in the same chair, feet up on the edge of the bed, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a knife that Jaskier’s pretty sure was not designed for that particular purpose. “Maybe I will,” he says primly. 

Geralt’s eyes are still closed and his arm is lax around Jaskier’s shoulders, but Jaskier feels his rumbling laugh in the pit of his stomach. “It’ll take more than a tutor to fix his singing,” he says, barely more than a vibration in his chest. “He’s been tone-deaf since before you were born.” 

Jaskier pulls a face. “Thanks for the reminder that I’m sleeping with someone old enough to be my grandfather.” 

“Great-grandfather, if you had them young,” Eskel points out helpfully. “Like _your_ singing voice is any better, Geralt.” 

“Are you honestly telling me that a good musical education isn’t particularly high on curriculum at Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier asks. “I am _horrified_. I’ll have to have words with Vesemir.” 

“Remind me to stick around for _that_ conversation,” Eskel mutters. 

Geralt cracks an eye open, peering over at Eskel, and for a second the sight makes Jaskier’s heart thud so hard in his chest that it physically hurts. He said he’d been here, he said he’d stay, but Jaskier knows all too well that words are just, well, words. “I’m awake now, Eskel,” Geralt says, his hand flexing closer around Jaskier’s shoulder. “You don’t have to stay.” 

Eskel shakes his head, kicking his feet down off the edge of the bed and leaning forward. “Oh no,” he says, smirking. “I was promised a singing lesson, Geralt. And seeing as though I don’t think you’re going to let Jaskier out of that bed any time soon—” Jaskier feels how Geralt’s arms tighten almost involuntarily, pulling him infinitesimally closer, and his heart warms in response. “—I’ll have to hang around for a little while longer.” 

Jaskier snorts. “I think we’ll need longer than _a little while._ ” 

Eskel snorts. “Well go on then, bard,” he says, amused. “Show me how it’s done.” 

Geralt groans. “Why would you _challenge him?_ ” 

But Jaskier will not be deterred. He pushes himself upright, opens his chest as much as he can given that, well, in bed with a witcher isn’t the best position for good vocal quality, then rattles off a couple of bars of _Merry Maids_ , double speed and flawlessly enunciated – not bad for being drugged and nearly dying only yesterday, if he says so himself. 

Except now Eskel and Geralt are both just… _staring_ at him.

Jaskier blinks. “What?” 

“You felt that, right?” Eskel asks. 

“Yeah,” Geralt says.

“Felt _what?_ ” Jaskier asks, pitched a little higher. 

The door opens with a sharp thud, and Yennefer comes spilling in, Triss and Ciri on her heels. “What was that?” Yennefer snaps. 

Jaskier yelps, tugs the blankets higher on his chest even though he’s still wearing a shirt – and, oh, brilliant, because the pregnant woman and the Redanian appear all of a sudden in the doorway, mostly looking confused by the whole affair. He had no idea they were even still _here_. “What the _fuck_ is going on?” he barks. “Why are there now _seven people_ in here? I’m in bed!”

“With Geralt, apparently,” Triss says, dryly amused. “I thought I told you no strenuous activity.” 

“We were sleeping!” Jaskier protests. 

“Uh huh,” Triss says, then settles onto the bed next to him, takes his head between her hands, opens his mouth and peers at his tongue. “You sang, didn’t you?” 

Jaskier makes a muffled noise around her fingers. 

“He did,” Eskel confirms. “It was _The Merry Maids of Nilfgaard_ , if the song choice matters.” 

Ciri frowns. “I don’t know that one.” 

“It’s not exactly princess-friendly,” Yennefer says, eyebrow raised, then looks back to Triss. “Is that what caused that surge? His _singing_?” 

Jaskier pulls his head away from Triss’ probing fingers. “Nice to see you, too, Yennefer,” he says. “And will somebody tell me what you’re all talking about? What _surge_?” 

“When you sang,” Geralt says, his hand steady and warm on the small of Jaskier’s back. “There was a burst of magic when you sang.” 

Jaskier pales. “There was _what_?” 

“It was strong enough that we felt it downstairs,” Triss says. “Show me your tongue again, Jaskier.” 

“It’s that fucking sigil, isn’t it?” Jaskier says, but does as he’s told and sticks his tongue out. 

“It must be,” Triss says, then holds her palm over his tongue, murmurs something he doesn’t catch. Nothing seems to happen, but after a moment Yennefer inhales sharply and Eskel’s hand goes to his medallion. “It is,” Triss says, dropping her hand. “Sing something.” 

For once in his life, Jaskier’s at a loss for words. “Sing what?” 

“Anything,” Triss says. 

Eskel snorts. “ _Toss a Coin_.” 

Jaskier ignores Geralt’s groan and obliges, runs through the first verse. 

“It wasn’t as strong that time,” Yennefer says, folding her arms. “The first surge was a lot more noticeable than that.” 

Triss nods. “It’s likely that whatever power that sigil has bound to his tongue will fade with use,” she says. “Although I doubt that it will disappear entirely, not given the potency of that mark.” 

“Hang on a minute,” Jaskier interrupts, holding up his hand. “Are you saying that I now have a _magic tongue_?” 

The pregnant woman moves, steps forward into the room, her hands pressed gently to the swell of her belly. “I can feel dust on the back of my tongue,” she says. “The heat of the sun overhead. The smell of grass.” 

The Redanian is nodding. “Me, too.” 

Geralt inhales sharply. “Dol Blathanna,” he says softly. 

Jaskier glances at him, understanding. “Shit,” he says, then turns around, looks back to the pregnant woman. “Okay, try this.” He pauses, thinks for a second, then picks a verse of _The Song of the Mountain Cold_ that doesn’t mention witchers or mountains or snow, it actually only really talks about stables and laundry and sweeping the kitchen floor. He sings it quietly, softly, feels the tightening curl of Geralt’s fingers against his hip, hears the catch in Eskel’s breath, sees the slow, soft smile that spreads across Ciri’s face. 

“Snow,” the Redanian says. “Snow in the mountains, under a blue sky.” 

“And love,” the pregnant woman says, smiling softly. “Love as warm as a fireplace in the winter.” 

Jaskier feels his cheeks flush. “I _do_ have a magic tongue,” he says, a little faintly. 

Eskel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop saying magic tongue,” he grumbles. “My mind is going places I really don’t want to go.” 

“The magic is definitely lessening every time,” Triss says, ignoring Eskel. “Before long, it will barely be noticeable, I’d imagine – nothing more than the usual background hum of magic you get in any major metropolis.” 

“It’s tapping into your memories,” Yennefer says slowly, her head tilted a little to one side, an odd expression on her face. “Sharing them with your audience. I can feel them, too, the snow and the mountains, the smell of the grass.” 

“Empathy,” Geralt says suddenly. “It’s empathy.” 

“That would seem likely, yes,” Triss agrees, and smiles softly. “In the Bind of Five, the bard’s tongue represents the power of song to grant fame and thereby immortality – but maybe that explains why there’s no recorded instance of the ritual actually _working_. The power of song isn’t immortality, isn’t fame. It’s empathy. It’s _emotion_.” 

Jaskier sighs. “Okay,” he says. “This has all been very interesting. I have a magical tongue, now, which gives my whole audience a fascinating glimpse into my memories – which, to be honest, will actually be very useful. It’s an automatic connection, although it _does_ mean that I’m going to have to be a bit more careful about which songs I sing where.” He grimaces. “I don’t think _The White Wolf’s Blade_ is going to be getting many outings in polite company – the innuendo doesn’t really work if, well, you know, it’s _obvious_.” 

Ciri frowns. “What innuendo?” 

Jaskier’s just going to pretend he didn’t hear that. “This is all fascinating,” he says, “ _but_ I’m going to politely request that you all get out of my bedroom, okay? I nearly _died_ , remember? I need my beauty sleep.” 

Triss wags her finger at him. “No strenuous activity,” she reminds, then slips out, taking the two humans with her. Ciri comes and hugs Jaskier, sharp and quick, then leaves with Eskel’s hand on her shoulder, saying something about sparring that Jaskier will worry about later – and then that just leaves Geralt, curled around Jaskier and showing no signs of moving, and Yennefer. 

Jaskier abruptly feels the echo of that old heartbreak curling in his gut. 

Yennefer steps closer, arms crossed. “Bard,” she says. 

“Sorceress,” Jaskier answers. 

Yennefer’s lips twitch. “I’m glad you survived,” she says. 

“I’m glad you survived, too,” Jaskier answers. 

Yennefer laughs, surprisingly affectionate, and looks to Geralt, studies him silently for a second. “I felt his love for you, Geralt,” she says, and Jaskier takes a sharp breath, his cheeks blazing hot. “When he sang. I think we all did.” She pauses for a moment. “If you fuck this up, Geralt, I’ll kill you.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows leap. “Excuse me?” 

“Go away, Yen,” Geralt says, and his arm curls tighter around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him into his embrace, closer, tighter. 

Yennefer smiles. “Don’t ruin Triss’ handiwork,” she says as a passing shot, and closes the door behind her when she leaves. 

Jaskier lets Geralt pull him until they’re pressed together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. Geralt presses his face into Jaskier’s neck, breathes him in, fingers slipping under the fabric of his shirt and mapping across his skin, sending sparks up his spine. His lips are hot and insistent, kissing the arc of Jaskier’s neck like he’s touching him for the first time. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, laughing, lightly pushing at Geralt’s shoulders. “ _Geralt!_ You heard them. We can’t.” 

“Triss said no strenuous activity,” Geralt murmurs into his neck, fingers slipping below the waist of Jaskier’s trousers. “So just lie back, let me do all the work. Not strenuous at all.” 

Jaskier laughs again, bright and shining. “Is this because I have a magic tongue now?” 

Geralt kisses him, slow and languid, shudderingly good. “While I am looking forward to that,” he murmurs, “no, it’s not because you have a magic tongue.” He pauses, kisses him again. “Yen felt the love in your song,” he says, quiet, precious. “So did I.” 

Jaskier’s heart thuds harder. “You did?” 

Geralt nods, and his lips spread in a smile, broad and beaming and happier than Jaskier thinks he’s ever seen him. “Like a fire in winter.” 

Jaskier stares at Geralt a moment longer, at his golden eyes, at his silver-white hair, at the soft honesty of his smile and the warmth of his expression. “You know I love you,” he says softly. “I’ve told you before.” 

“I know,” Geralt says. “But feeling it is different.” He leans forward, runs his hand into Jaskier’s hair, kisses him deeper, harder. “And I don’t have a magic tongue,” he murmurs, kisses again. “I can’t sing to you and have you feel what I feel.” He kisses Jaskier’s neck, sucks a bruise into his throat. “So let me show you how _I_ feel,” he whispers, bites gently over the bruise. “Let me show you what you _make me_ feel.” 

Jaskier groans, arches back. “Triss is going to be furious.” 

Geralt laughs and pulls Jaskier’s shirt over his head. “We’ll survive.” 

Triss lets Jaskier out of bed the next day, on the condition that he takes it easy and he stops having sex with Geralt. Jaskier isn’t entirely sure he’s going to be able to keep to that second part of the deal, but he’s quite enjoying being waiting on hand and foot, to be honest, so he can live with the first. He sits in Triss’ kitchen, getting Geralt to bring him whatever he fancies out of the pantry, sweetmeats and roast pork and the finest Temerian brandy – and then he sits in the kitchen with Miria and with Darryn, hugs them, talks to them, spends hours doing everything they can to lessen their shared pain. He sings to them, occasionally, little fragments of songs he wrote on warm summer afternoons in fields of sunflowers, ditties he composed by the fireside in the depths of winter, and the peace in those songs seems to help. 

Miria cries, once, and Darryn holds onto her hand so tightly both of their fingers pale as white as the snows of Kaer Morhen.

“Yennefer says she’ll take us home,” Miria says, eventually, patting Jaskier’s hand. “Back to Redania.” 

“Is that safe?” Jaskier asks, fear clawing up his throat. “Aldebraan is still out there. Geralt and Yennefer couldn’t find him.” 

Miria laughs. “Well, I’ll soon be out of my eighth month of pregnancy,” she says, “and Darryn’s getting further away from the day his voice broke every day. We’re of no use anymore. And if he decides to come after us for revenge, well.” She pauses, reaches into the neck of her blouse, pulls out a small rough-cut amethyst on a leather cord. “Yennefer gave us these. We can summon her if we need help.” 

Jaskier feels his lips twitch. “She likes to pretend that she’s hard and tough,” he confides, “but she’s actually surprisingly soft inside.” He pauses, grins. “Not sure she’d like me saying that, though.” 

Miria laughs in response. “I’m just looking forward to going home,” she says, runs a hand over the swell of her belly. “This is enough excitement for me.” 

Darryn nods. “Me, too.” 

Jaskier thinks about Geralt, about Ciri, about Eskel and Yennefer and all the rest of them, the sorceresses, the witchers, the princesses and the people who want to kill them. “Oh, I think I’ve still got a little more excitement in me yet,” he says, and smiles. 

Yennefer takes the two of them home later that evening, opens a portal in Triss’ forecourt and guides them through, a strange protectiveness in the line of her shoulders that makes Jaskier smirk, just a little. Geralt stands with Jaskier as he says goodbye, and Jaskier doesn’t ask, doesn’t say anything, but when his hands start to shake and his knees start to weaken, Geralt steps closer, slides his arm around Jaskier’s waist, holds him steady, doesn’t let him fall.

There’s a metaphor there, Jaskier thinks, but for once he’s not really in the mood for songwriting. 

“Come on,” Geralt says in his ear, once the portal has snapped shut. “Let’s go back inside.” He pauses, grimaces. “I think Ciri’s cooking something. Eskel said he was going to supervise.” 

Jaskier groans. “I vote we get out of here while we still can,” he says. “I don’t care how good she is at stabbing people, she _cannot_ cook.” 

Geralt hums, amused, but he steers Jaskier back towards the house anyway. “There’s wine, too.” 

“I do like wine,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. 

The kitchen is a mess of chaos, every surface covered in bowls and pans, flour somehow on the ceiling, and a distinct smell of burning in the air. Jaskier barks a laugh at the sight, settles himself into a chair while Geralt starts tidying up with a vaguely long-suffering expression, but then Eskel passes him a cup of wine, Ciri delightedly shows him a lopsided cake that doesn’t actually look completely inedible, and Triss takes a seat beside him, the rest of the wine in tow. 

Jaskier tops up his cup. “I would have thought you’d be cautioning me against the wine,” he says, touching his cup to hers. 

Triss shrugs. “You’ll probably fall asleep long before you drink enough to do anything foolish,” she says, taking a sip. “And even if you do manage to get yourself drunk, I’m sure Geralt will manage to get you to your bed.” 

On the other side of the kitchen, flour smeared up to his elbows, Eskel laughs. “I warn you,” he says, “Jaskier has a habit of doing stupid things when he’s drunk. _Bed_ -related stupid things.” 

Ciri pulls a face. “Ugh.” 

“His name is Lambert, actually,” Jaskier answers, prim and proper. “And we had a very pleasant evening. Exactly what I needed.” 

“ _Ugh!_ ” Ciri says louder. 

“Not sure ‘pleasant’ is the word Lambert would use,” Eskel observes wryly. 

“I can confirm it isn’t,” Geralt deadpans in response, a bowl in each hand. 

Eskel grimaces. “Gonna stop you _right_ there.” 

Triss is studying them all, an amused smile on her lips. “I never thought I’d have so many witchers in my kitchen,” she says. “And I _certainly_ never thought that _this_ is the conversation we’d be having.” 

“In my experience,” Jaskier says, sipping deeper, “it’s pretty rare that any conversation with a witcher goes in the direction that you think it will.” 

“They can be complicated,” Triss agrees. 

“Or just idiots,” Jaskier offers.

Triss nods, mock-thoughtful, then smiles. “You make a good point.” She studies him for a moment, then drinks her wine. “You can stay here for a while, if you’d like to,” she says, quiet enough that their conversation feels mostly private, slipping below the racket of Ciri’s orders, Geralt’s hums, Eskel’s protests. “You and Geralt, you’re more than welcome to. If you want some peace for a while.” 

Jaskier eyes Ciri, who’s currently brandishing a leek in Geralt’s face. “Not sure we’ll get much peace around here.” 

Triss laughs. “Yennefer will be back soon,” she says, “and I know that she has plans for Ciri, where to take her, how to teach her. They’ll be leaving in the next few days.” A pang of hurt twists Jaskier’s chest, just for a moment, and he watches Ciri set Geralt to chopping leeks, a look on her face that’s somewhere between imperious and joyful. “Plus, I’ve got business in Kaedwen for the next few weeks,” Triss continues. “And your witcher friend probably has enough sense to not want to spend too much time around the two of you once you’re back to… full strength.” 

Jaskier grins and watches as Ciri shoves a handful of onions at Eskel. “Very good point,” he says. “Eskel’s a wise man.” 

Eskel shoots him a disapproving glance as he peels onions. Jaskier just beams back. 

“It would be peaceful,” Triss says. “If you want.” 

Jaskier glances at Geralt, chopping leeks with the same kind of skill and precision that Jaskier’s seen him butcher the corpse of a kikimora. “I don’t know about Geralt,” he says, barely more than a whisper, “but I think that sounds perfect.” 

Geralt looks up from the leeks as Ciri monologues about garlic. There’s a softness around his golden eyes, a tiny curve to his lips, and he nods, just once. 

“It’s a plan,” Jaskier says, and reaches for Triss’ hand, squeezes tight. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Triss says, and raises her cup to his. 

“Jaskier!” Ciri calls, sharp and piercing. “Come here! I need you to chop garlic.”

Jaskier downs the rest of his wine in one. “Your wish is my command, my dear princess,” he says with a flourish, and gets to chopping garlic. 

Yennefer returns before the sun has set, by which time Triss has been roped into Ciri’s elaborate preparations and Jaskier has been told he’s not allowed to chop garlic anymore because he does it badly. Instead, he’s relegated to stirring duty, poking at the rich broth that’s developing in a deep pot on the stove as Geralt and Eskel get through a mountain of vegetables between them. Yennefer joins Triss at the table, accepts a cup of wine and studies the whole tableau with a smirk of amusement twisting her lips, then says, “I leave you alone for a few hours, Ciri, and you’ve got three men completely under your thumb. I have to say, I approve.” 

Jaskier snorts. “We’re not under her thumb, Yennefer,” he says. “This is all _voluntary_.” 

Yennefer hums, and sips. “That’s exactly what you _want_ them to think, Cirilla.” 

Jaskier makes an offended noise, but Geralt just laughs. It’s a warm sound, a gentle sound, full of happiness, full of contentment, and Jaskier just watches him, for a moment, the strong jaw, the golden eyes, the hands that dance with a chopping knife just as beautifully as they do with a silver sword. 

Warmth, deep in his heart, as warm as a fire in the depths of the winter snows. 

Ciri whacks his arm. “Keep stirring!” she orders. “You have to keep stirring, that’s what Vesemir told me, otherwise the leeks will all stick to the sides and it’ll be ruined!” 

Geralt shoots him an amused look. “You’d better keep stirring,” he advises. “Wouldn’t want the leeks to stick.” 

Jaskier scoffs. “Oh, so Vesemir will give _cooking_ lessons, but he won’t teach music? I am _personally offended_.” 

“You could _use_ cooking lessons, bard,” Eskel says. “I saw how you mangled the garlic. Do they not teach you how to chop vegetables at Oxenfurt?” 

“I was too busy learning _standards_ , Eskel.” 

Eskel snorts. “Do I need to bring up Lambert again?” 

Jaskier sniffs. “I’d really rather you didn’t.” 

Geralt rumbles a laugh.

Ciri just smacks Jaskier in the arm again. “ _Keep stirring!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you to everyone for all the kind words in the comments - I know this is pretty different from _The Path Not Taken_ , so I'm grateful for everyone who stuck with me through the magical fuckery and all the glorious whump.


End file.
